


Through the Hidden Door

by JudeAraya



Series: OSU!Verse [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: Dubious Consent, Emotional Abuse, M/M, hurt comfort, reference to off screen non con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 39,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1589480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JudeAraya/pseuds/JudeAraya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blaine Anderson is lost; lost in a relationship that is emotionally abusive. He’s settling for a fraction of his dreams of romance and love, sure that his unhappiness isn’t enough to justify breaking someone else’s heart, until he meets Kurt Hummel, the enigmatic boy he once noticed on a crowded dance floor. Kurt has his own issues to face, mistakes made in youth and the longing wish that he’d listened to his father when he’s insisted that he mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> VERY LONG author's note: 
> 
> This is a difficult story. Please understand there is one scene with dubcon (it's not graphic) and discussion of noncon (offscreen). It deals with emotional abuse. 
> 
> Additional warnings for: internalized slut shaming, alcohol use, sex under the influence, references to sex with other characters, one instance of physical abuse. I'll be putting specific warnings on each chapter for what we'll see. If you are concerned you can message me. If you want to skip a chapter due to a specific warning, I am happy to give you a summary or a sanitized version.
> 
> That said, this is a story about incredible and deep friendship, about learning to love and trust someone, and healing. 
> 
> So many thanks because in two years, this story took a village. This story was originally beta'd in parts by alianne and lovely_spark, spag'd by bashful 1881, stut--ter, and epanaphoric. 
> 
> It was written during a very difficult time in my life. I had committed to a big bang, and in the middle of writing it had to go to long term in-patient psychiatric care where I had almost no internet access; I've been wanting to go back through and fix a lot of the story and errors in there. After 2 years of sitting on it, with encouragement by hedgerose in particular, I finally did it! I did clean it up and make some changes, but nothing huge, because I wanted to honor the story I told originally. This means that I was working with early S3 Kurt and Blaine.
> 
> So many thanks to istytehcrawk for beta'ing this round, for getting my butt in gear and for making cover art for this story.
> 
> Title for this story comes from the Florence + the Machine song Blinding, and the story references Cursive's album, The Ugly Organ throughout. 
> 
> Fanart and fanmix gifted for this story when I wrote it for the KBB can be found at http://judearaya.livejournal.com/25114.html

When Blaine was 14, he was sure the world was full of promise; change was coming, he knew it and he could feel it in the air all around him. Maybe he was young, and too optimistic, but he was sure, positive that the world was changing, becoming more accepting and open.

When Blaine was 14, he had just a little of that optimism beaten out of him at his first school dance. 

He never admitted this to himself: he had changed. But he chose to name those changes things like “maturity” and “realism.” And while he never gave up hoping that one day things would be different for kids like him, he did lose a bit of the wide-eyed innocence. 

At 15, Blaine wanted it all: he wanted a boyfriend and someone to hold hands with. Someone who would look beyond the uniform and the perfect hair. Someone to see past the boy who had run away from bullies to find shelter and haven in a school that was stifling and monochromatic. 

So maybe he threw himself into every interaction that hinted at the slightest possibility. Maybe he read too much into the littlest things, searching for signs that someone, anyone, might want _him_. 

He would go home to a cold and empty house over breaks, immediately missing the noise and camaraderie of the dorms. Home meant cold dinners and careless notes with parents gone to one party after another, stuck in business meetings or getting together with friends for a quick nine holes on a sunny Sunday. When he was home, he was as good as invisible -- a wandering ghost, haunting corners in search of warm memories, happy moments from his childhood. 

They weren’t really there. 

By the time his 16th birthday had rolled around, Blaine was terrifyingly empty without even knowing it. He thought he was happy. He had friends; he was the lead singer of the Warblers. He was popular and accepted. 

When Blaine Anderson was 16, he met a boy on the staircase at Dalton and his whole world changed. Like his 14-year-old self, Blaine was sure that something good was coming. 

It isn’t until years later, with his 20th birthday looming, that Blaine realizes just how desperately sad and lonely he had been. As the final hours of his life as a teenager count down, he understands that he had been a vessel, waiting for someone, anyone, to come and fill him with even the smallest drop of something like love. 

Staring into the mirror on the eve of his 20th birthday, Blaine’s face is tired. 

A rueful smile twists his mouth; he wonders if there will ever be any part of him that can believe in something good again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you haven't read the previous two stories in the verse, you might be a little lost at the start of this chapter.
> 
> References to Blaine's assault and some internalized homophobia on Kurt's part. Definite dub con at the end of the chapter. You can always message me for a copy of the chapter with that cut out if you want to read the story without it. Only instance of on screen dubcon in the story.

It may be that he’s drunk, but Blaine is absolutely baffled and overwhelmed by Kurt. They are sitting in a half-empty diner on opposite ends of a booth meant for at least eight people, with stale coffee going cold as they get to know each other. And Kurt - this beautiful boy who has fascinated him for months - he is so much. He’s almost too much, all sass and verve, and, _god_ , he’s just breathtaking, really.

Blaine isn’t completely sure how they’ve ended up here at three in the morning. It should feel strange that they’re talking over pancakes and somehow managing to smooth over everything that’s come before this: the desperate kissing on a crowded dance floor and the sparked invitation, promising something fast and reckless and just everything that Blaine _isn’t_. 

But they have, and nothing about this feels weird. It’s overwhelming, maybe, but, really, that’s to be expected. Blaine is reeling from lack of sleep, the emotional upheaval of breaking up with Ryan, combined with the effects of too much alcohol and this stunning boy across the booth from him. Kurt is so far away and yet too close. 

“So,” Kurt says, looking at him dead on, and Blaine feels himself sway a little as the power of those eyes hits him. “What’s your story?” 

“Hmmm?” Blaine is picking at his pancakes, drawing a strawberry through the melting whipped cream and dripping syrup. 

“You seem…” Kurt tilts his head to the side, studying Blaine candidly. Uncomfortable, Blaine twitches, fiddling with his fork and the strawberry. “...sad.” 

Blaine laughs; it’s reflex, instant deflection. _Really, who is this kid?_

“Huh.” Blaine isn’t sure of his footing here. He is so used to people seeing what he wants them to see that the projection has become a familiar second skin: a happy and confident Blaine, always on and ready to do whatever is needed. To have someone see through all of that is…disconcerting. 

“I don’t know…I--it’s been a hard day?” Blaine is startled by the way he says it, how he turns it into a question. He can feel the surprise on his face and has the sudden realization that maybe he’s even more drunk than he’d realized. 

Kurt is still watching him, one carefully groomed eyebrow arched. Blaine is overcome by a smothering desire to unload his ugly mess of confusion all over the table. 

“I think I broke up with my boyfriend today.” The words are out before he’s even planned on saying anything. It’s unexpected and disquieting. 

“You _think_?’” Kurt scoots around the rounded booth until he’s beside Blaine, one leg curled beneath himself and the other propped up. His elbow is crooked on his knee and _wow_. It’s been so long since anyone has really, actively, listened to him. Kurt is obviously waiting, wanting to talk, and Blaine has to look away. He blinks hard to keep tears from forming in his eyes. 

“Um, yeah. I think.” Blaine isn’t sure, to be honest. He knows what he said, but he’s not sure what Ryan heard. Or how strong he himself is feeling. When Ryan comes back around, which is inevitable because he always does, Blaine can’t promise that Ryan won’t manage to talk his way back in, undoing every argument Blaine has come up with for why breaking up is right. Why it’s _necessary_ , because right now he might just drown if he doesn’t find some air. 

“Okay.” Kurt is still considering him. “What about your friends? What do they think?” 

Blaine can’t help the bitter laugh, “I don’t know; I’m sure they’re still celebrating. My roommate isn’t Ryan’s biggest fan.” He shrugs, embarrassed. He doesn’t have close friends, other than Ryan. He hangs out with his roommate, Jeff, and Jeff’s friends, but he doesn’t feel particularly close to anyone. 

“Hmmm.” Kurt’s answer is noncommittal. He’s picking at the seam of his jeans, still watching Blaine. He looks…soft? There is something in his eyes, maybe the sympathy, that’s too much for Blaine right now. He feels unguarded and vulnerable, drunk and a little disoriented. 

“You know, I’m sorry-- I’ve just met you. You don’t need me dumping my dumb problems all over you.” He tries to wave it off, as if there aren’t obvious tears in his eyes. Kurt is gentle, his hand easy on Blaine’s arm. 

“Maybe that makes me the perfect candidate. You seem like you could use a friend. I’m actually _really_ fabulous -- you could do worse, you know.” 

That’s when Blaine gives up, head thumping heavily on the table. He’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry. The only thing he knows is the thread of Kurt’s fingers as he grips Blaine’s hand. It feels like comfort; it’s foreign and he longs for more. 

“Yes. I really could.” 

~*~ 

Depending on who you ask, it’s either late or early as they make their way home, considerably more sober. They’d been in that diner for hours, talking and getting to know each other. They walk slowly toward campus. Blaine can see the street lamps in the distance when Kurt asks where he lives. 

“In the same dorm as you, dummy.” Blaine’s laugh softens the insult. Kurt’s smile under the street lamps is natural; the way it makes the breath catch in Blaine’s throat is not -- not for him, at least. 

“What? How do you know that?” 

“I’ve seen you around,” Blaine says shrugging. “I noticed you at the club one night and then saw you at the dorm a few days later.” He winces. “Is that creepy? I feel like I’ve gone to the creepy place.” 

Kurt laughs, bumping shoulders with him. “It’s not creepy... at least, I don’t think so. I can’t believe I’ve never noticed you.” Kurt’s gaze is assessing. Blushing, Blaine turns away. He wonders what color Kurt’s eyes are. He doesn’t turn back to see. 

“Yeah, well...” he starts, pausing when Kurt threads their arms together. Kurt is warm, taller, and thinner, too. It’s nice to have someone touch him like this. It feels friendly, safe. “You stand out.” He can feel Kurt tensing next to him, but, before Blaine can say anything, Kurt speaks. 

“Yes, I believe that. What is it? Too gay? Too flamboyant?” The faint tinge of bitterness in his voice sneaks under Blaine’s skin, and he wonders, _who hurt this boy?_ From a distance, Kurt has always seemed confident, dynamic, and radiating moxie. Blaine thinks of the night he first saw Kurt, of Kurt’s whispered confession in the bathroom of the club. He’d been struck by the idea that there was something _more_ to him, something under the surface of all that lively vivacity. He sees it now; Kurt is more like him than he’d thought -- self-assured on the outside, but maybe just a little damaged inside. 

“No,” Blaine says quietly, stopping and turning to face Kurt. “You seemed... I noticed you because you-- you seemed so alive.” His voice is tinged with embarrassment, but Kurt isn’t laughing. Blaine can already tell he’s thinking. They consider each other for a moment before Kurt turns, pulling Blaine along with him. They don’t talk again until they are almost at the door of the dorms. 

“It’s so dark out.” Blaine hunches his shoulders. He’s cold and tired and not dressed for the overnight temperature drop. 

“Isn’t there some sort of saying about that?” Kurt asks, amused. “About how it’s darkest before the dawn?” Blaine is startled by the words but doesn’t respond. He wonders how dark his own life is right now, and if dawn is just over the horizon. 

“Hey, give me your phone.” Kurt is already pulling out his own phone as he gestures for Blaine to do the same. Puzzled, he takes Kurt’s, giving him his. “Put your number in. Can’t be friends without having each other’s numbers, right?” 

Blaine feels the smile, what feels like a _real_ smile, breaking through his numbed skin, cracking along the seams. He nods, shaky fingers programming his number into Kurt’s phone. He’s about to speak when he feels a hand on his shoulder, causing him to jump and almost drop the phone in his hands. 

“Hey.” Blaine freezes as he turns to find Ryan, dressed in ratty track pants and an old sweater. He looks a mess: his eyes are puffy and something about the look of heartbreak fractures Blaine. 

“Ryan.” It’s the barest whisper, and he has to close his eyes. He doesn’t want this, can’t have Ryan near him, not when he’s tired and cold and defenseless. What’s worse, Kurt is right there, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. 

“Can we-- can we please talk? I have my car, if Jeff doesn’t want me to come up.” Ryan has his pleading voice on, and his face is so earnest. It works well; Ryan barely has to exert any control anymore because they both slip into this like a second skin. Between Ryan’s tone, his eyes, and his fingers at the hollow of Blaine’s wrist, he’s shamelessly tugging at every one of the strings he’s sewn around Blaine’s heart. Blaine can’t do anything but gesture toward the dorm. He looks at Kurt, apology and warning in his eyes, and Kurt just looks back, steady and unfazed. 

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” Kurt smiles as he says it, handing back Blaine’s phone. Blaine wonders what the protocol is here, if he should introduce them. What would he even say? _Ryan, tentative ex, meet Kurt, the boy I was tongue-fucking six hours ago. The boy who has the potential to be the only real friend I’ve had in years, if I don’t manage to scare him away or fuck this up._

It’s probably best that he not say anything; he nods at Kurt instead. They head into the dorm in silence, parting ways at the stairwell. Blaine doesn’t turn toward Ryan, assuming he’ll be followed. Blaine is torn between anger and regret, and he’s just so tired. Not because it’s 5 am, but because he knows how this is going to end. He’s tired of being so weak and tired of feeling like his happiness is the last consideration -- for anyone, but especially for himself. 

He unlocks his door with fingers that are still shaking from the cold, moving away from Ryan’s hands. Blaine doesn’t think he can stomach the thought of Ryan touching him right now, not even to help him out of a coat he isn’t wearing but should have been. 

“So…” Ryan starts. “That was fast.” His tone is bitter and Blaine feels accused and defensive all at once. 

“Ryan. Don’t.” 

Ryan snorts, picking things up off of Blaine’s desk with jerky movements and putting them down haphazardly. 

“No, really,” Ryan says, sitting in Blaine’s chair and turning to face him. The chair squeals loudly, reminding Blaine that he needs to either get a new one or fix this one. The noise is like nails on a chalkboard. “Blaine.” Ryan’s voice is filled with hurt. “I thought you loved me. Who was that guy? How can you just--” he lets the accusation hang, cloaking guilt around Blaine’s shoulders. 

“Ryan, come on. He’s a friend. Besides, even if he wasn’t, isn’t it my business now?” Blaine tries to see Ryan the way he looks in his mind’s eye, to hold onto the way he sees him when Ryan isn’t there, but all he can see are Ryan’s tears. 

“Please don’t mean that.” Ryan stands and pulls Blaine forward, tucking his face into Blaine’s shoulder, tears wet against his neck. Blaine’s skin crawls, his heart splitting. If he believes anything, it’s that in this moment, Ryan is sincere. 

“Please don’t do this, baby. I love you so much. I’ll do better. I can change, I can change anyway you want me to.” 

Blaine stands stiffly, trying to avoid the guilt and confusion. “Ryan, you shouldn’t have to change. Please stop. I meant it. This is over, I can’t do this anym-- more.” He’s stuttering, trying to get the words out, helpless as his arms come up to hug Ryan. It seems to be instinct to comfort people in pain, even the people who hurt him the most. There’s this overriding feeling that someone else’s pain is more important than his own, because Blaine has been hurt before. He’s been hurt and disappointed and beaten, and he knows he’s strong enough to get through almost anything -- anything but hurting someone else. 

“Please, Blaine.” It’s hard to understand Ryan through his tears. “Please, just give me one more chance.” Blaine bites his lip, trying to figure out how to make _‘I’m so unhappy’_ enough of a reason to hurt another person. It’s in his power to make this better, to undo the heartbreak he’s inflicting. Maybe Ryan _will_ change, or _he_ will change. Maybe, somehow, _he’ll_ find it in himself to want to be with Ryan again. 

“No one can love you like I can.” Ryan’s lips are on his skin, and Blaine’s eyes close. “No one knows you like I do.” And he’s right; Ryan is right: in his life, there is no one who loves him as much as Ryan does. No amount of wishing changes that simple truth. 

So he ignores the aching in his bones and the crushing weight of carrying another person’s happiness solely in his hands. He wonders when it will be time, when he’ll have reason enough to break free. When Ryan will finally do something irrevocable, something so bad even he can’t beg or cry his way out of it. There has to be something, some moment or action that is _enough_ ; it’s Blaine’s hidden door, an escape he half hopes for every time he finds himself here. The hope for a time when he can justify to himself, and to everyone else, that leaving this boy who has a stranglehold on his life and his heart will lead to his happiness. Or, better, a time when he’ll be brave enough to go it alone, brave enough to live in a world without even the smallest glimmer of love with which to warm his hands. 

~*~ 

It’s almost morning when they crawl into Blaine’s tiny bed. The bunk sways with their combined weight. Blaine feels unreal, untethered and numb. He’s been withdrawn for so long, found so many ways to exist in his life and in his body without having to really feel any of it, that the numbness is almost a comfort. He’s had one night of exposure, of letting himself try to breathe and be and feel. There were moments where he’d felt so exposed: in the club, walking with Kurt, particularly the conversation in the diner. He’d been left rubbed raw and defenseless. _Maybe_ , he thinks, _maybe numb is better in the end_. 

When Ryan’s hands come around him, cold and sure, dipping below his waistband, Blaine jerks away hard enough that he’s almost sent over the edge of the bed. 

“Come on, you weren’t serious about that, were you?” Ryan whines against his back. Blaine closes his eyes, trying not to remember. He tries to ignore the memory of nights past, of things that make his skin crawl. There are reasons why he’d finally found the courage to tell Ryan, months ago, that they wouldn’t be having sex any more. At the time, it had been survival: he felt like he would go crazy, literally go insane, if he had to stomach Ryan touching him ever again. 

But that feeling is far away right now. When he’d said that and stuck to his guns, it had been the first of many steps that he’d taken thinking he might finally find a way out of this relationship -- that he would find a way to extract and untangle himself. But that’s over now. He’s already given in just by letting Ryan back into his life. He knows the drill, the ways that acquiescence will make his life smoother, easier. Letting Ryan have his way has always been easier than fighting. Blaine doesn’t speak, just rolls closer and onto his back, watching as the sunrise lights the ceiling of his dorm. He pretends to be somewhere else as Ryan’s hand finds its way into his pants. 

He lets himself be pushed and pulled and flipped over, ignoring the way Ryan pants words like “love you,” “so tight,” and “all mine” into his ears. Blaine closes his eyes, then opens them. The sheets are white and he’s anesthetized, far from this body, from Ryan. He’s some place where he can let these things happen to him without feeling them at all. He thinks of Kurt, who has promised to be his friend, of Kurt’s words about the darkness before dawn. As he winces at the twinges of pain, Blaine thinks of his favourite song, the way Tim Kasher’s voice sounds at the very end, broken and hopeful, singing, _the worst is over._

He has the feeling it’s not, really, not by a long shot. Maybe one day. 


	3. Chapter 3

He’s still awake when Jeff stumbles in at eleven. The sun is filtering through the edges of his blinds, and his stomach has been rumbling for over an hour now. He watches as his roommate clumsily toes off his shoes and sees the moment when Jeff stills, staring down at Blaine in his bunk. All that can be seen is a constricting arm around Blaine’s waist. Ryan’s face is tucked into his back, breath heavy and steady between Blaine’s shoulder blades. Jeff gives a good-natured eyebrow waggle, a sort of congratulatory face that Blaine sighs at.

“Don’t bother,” he whispers, mouthing the next part. “Ryan.” Jeff’s face falls, and Blaine can see the disappointment and frustration on it. Blaine closes his eyes, tuning his roommate out. Reaching out, he finds his iPod and earbuds, trying not to move too much. He turns the volume up, as loud as he can, and lets himself drift. Blaine loses himself in the music and noise, letting the music pull him away from the small bed and small room, away from Ryan’s body, which is cumbersome and too hot and close to his. 

At two, Ryan finally wakes up with a start, startling Blaine. Blaine lets him borrow shower stuff, hoping that Ryan will leave soon. It’s not that late, but he knows that Ryan has to work early tomorrow. 

He putters around his room, thankful Jeff is asleep, checking emails and answering messages. His phone buzzes and he sees, with a flare of warmth and disbelief, a text from Kurt. Blaine smiles, feeling breathless and unsure; the club and that strange breakfast seem so far away now, like something that happened to someone else. Breathing deep, he checks the message. 

_Are you ok?_

For a moment he just sits, thinking. Is he okay? 

No. Not really. 

When was the last time he was, though? What does okay even feel like? When he starts to overthink things like this, Blaine wonders if he’s not a little unhinged, if he’s just fooling himself into thinking that the unhappy, gray pallor of his life is normal. He wonders if everyone feels like he does, or if maybe his expectations are much too high. 

Blaine doesn’t really think he is okay; he can only judge from what other people have said about how they feel happy or content. They’re comfortable with their lives and selves and love. Blaine has observed these things in other people, but he hasn’t felt any of them for himself. 

While he can honestly say that no, he definitely isn’t okay, he’s pretty sure that’s not the right answer for Kurt. His problems aren’t Kurt’s responsibility; they are Blaine’s burden to bear. 

_I’m fine. How are you?_

His phone is silent for less than 30 seconds before it buzzes again. Blaine checks to be sure Ryan is still in the shower. He has to remind himself firmly that he’s allowed to have friends. 

_Sure. I barely know you, and even I didn’t believe that. Want to go for coffee or something later?_

Blaine really doesn’t know how to respond. The part of him that is compelled to give people what they want and expect is a little thrown. Kurt obviously wants him to admit that he isn’t okay, but doing so would put undue attention on him, which is uncomfortable and unnecessary. He isn’t the same boy he used to be, the attention seeker who loved solos and the feeling of being on stage, all eyes on him. 

Unsure, he finally decides to skip the first part of Kurt’s text. 

_That sounds great- maybe later?_

Blaine can hear Ryan finishing up in the shower and puts his phone down just as Kurt’s reply comes through. 

_Sounds good. Call me._

He plasters a smile on his face when Ryan comes out, still dressed sloppily, hair wet and dripping onto his hooded sweatshirt. Blaine has to bite down on a surge of annoyance. Feeling guilty and resentful, he flips his phone face down, behind his keyboard, and tucks his cold fingers together in his lap. 

“I’m starving.” Ryan tosses the wet towel over a chair, smiling sweetly at Blaine. He kneels by him, placing a soft kiss on Blaine’s lips. “Wanna go get food?” 

“Ryan,” Blaine tries to be nice, but he feels agitated and itchy, “I don’t really have a lot of money.” 

“I’ll pay. Come on, I know you have to be hungry,” Ryan says, standing up. At Blaine’s raised eyebrow, Ryan laughs goodnaturedly, hauling him up by the hand and hugging him hard. His hands move to Blaine’s hips, sure and familiar against his skin. For a moment, Blaine feels his anger fade; this feels a little like home. For so long, Ryan has been the most constant person in his life, and the only person who has really loved Blaine at all. Blaine closes his eyes, resting his forehead against Ryan’s damp shoulder. 

“Okay.” Ryan makes no move to go, though, only holds Blaine closer, humming a little as his hands knead the tense muscles of Blaine’s back. 

“I love you, Blaine. So much.” His voice is quiet, and Blaine nods, not speaking. It’s unfair to Ryan, but he isn’t sure he can say the words back. 

That afternoon, it’s a relief to see Ryan’s car backing out of the small parking lot. Ryan lives over two hours away, so they only see each other on weekends. He feels guilt at the sense of liberation, knowing he has five days to just _be_. He won’t have to check to make sure he’s behaving properly or make sure he hasn’t offended or hurt Ryan. 

Checking the time, he sees that it is just past 5. It might be late for coffee, but he’s feeling unencumbered and reckless and he really, _really_ does not want to go back to his dorm and face Jeff’s silent (or not so silent) disapproval. 

_What r u doing?_

He sits out on a bench, waiting for Kurt’s reply. It’s cold, but the bench is dry, and it’s a beautiful day. The sky is cracking with winter, cloudless in the brittle air. 

_Classy text speak. Nothing. Want to hang out? Where are you?_

Blaine has to laugh. 

_I’m nothing if not classy. Outside, on the bench by the east wing. Front._

Blaine sits for ten minutes, watching cars drive by slowly and observing people as they walk. Campus is always a strange sort of quiet on Sundays. It’s a little eerie, the feeling like Monday is looming. There’s a hollow sort of emptiness as people huddle and recover from hangovers, catching up on their school work for the coming week. 

“Hey,” Kurt says, startling Blaine by swinging around and dropping gracefully onto the bench beside him. Blaine has a moment to take him in, from the way he smells (amazing and complicated), to the way he looks (so put together), to the way his own stomach tightens just seeing him. 

“Hi.” Blaine can feel that his smile is too bright; it worries him and he tries to rein it in. Is it too much? Will he freak Kurt out? 

“So…would you like to get some coffee or something?” Kurt stands and tugs on Blaine’s coat sleeve. There is something admirably confident about him, about the way he owns his space and his posture. It seems at odds with the soft and tentative underpinning that Blaine knows is there. He shakes his head at the thought. If he’s going to be Kurt’s friend, he’s going to have to stop thinking about _that_ night. Stop feeling the strange and indefinable twist deep down inside when he thinks about it. 

“That sounds great. I need some caffeine if I’m going to get any work done tonight.” Blaine lets Kurt lead him, walking next to him when he can. He stops, trying to avoid stray students whizzing past on bikes as they carelessly skid over patches of ice. He’s never understood how people can keep riding their bikes in the winter when the cold wind freezes the air in your nose and makes even walking to class unbearable. 

“Mmm, I know what you mean.” Kurt slides a look his way, as if testing Blaine’s mood. “Sleep at all?” he asks lightly. 

Blaine finds himself shaking his head, surprised by his honesty. “No, not at all.” 

“Want to talk about it?” Kurt offers neutrally. It’s not pressing or prying; it’s a sincere offer to listen if Blaine needs an ear. Kurt somehow seems to understand that Blaine might cave if he is pressured in any way. 

“Umm,” Blaine fiddles with his scarf nervously. He knows it’s a tell but can’t stop himself. “I don’t know.” 

“You do that a lot,” Kurt responds airily. He’s not looking at Blaine; he’s examining the cross traffic as they wait for a break to cross the street. Blaine waits until they are on the other side before speaking, choosing his words with care. 

“What? Deflect when I don’t know what I want, how I feel, or what I should say?” He strives for a sort of joking, self-deprecating tone. Kurt turns to look at him directly, without saying anything, and Blaine twitches nervously. There is so much understanding, so much _knowing_ in Kurt’s eyes. Blaine avoids Kurt’s gaze and turns into the coffee shop, pulling the rickety screen door open, then the heavier door behind it. They order and doctor their drinks in silence, and Kurt leads him over to an empty table toward the back of the shop. 

Blaine has never been there before, so he’s busy taking in the atmosphere: it’s laid back but cozy. It’s a small shop, cluttered with oversized chairs and low tables. He sees outlets along the floorboards and a sign advertising free WiFi. He might come here to study sometime; Jeff blasts loud music a lot, which tends to interrupt Blaine’s thought process. 

“So, you were saying?” Kurt’s fingers are delicate and long, holding the cup of coffee gingerly as he blows away the steam. 

“I was?” Blaine tries to dodge the question. He’s struggling to get the lid back onto his coffee, almost spilling it with his fumbling fingers. When he looks up, Kurt is examining him patiently. 

“Blaine. I know we just met, and we don’t know each other very well, so please don’t feel like you need to talk about anything, but can we at least promise to be honest with each other? If you don’t want to talk about something or need space, you can just tell me, okay?” Kurt toys with the hem of his sweater, failing to meet Blaine’s eyes. 

“Wow,” Blaine says, taken aback. He resists the urge to run a hand nervously through his hair. It’s a very old habit he hasn’t fallen back on in years, not since Ryan convinced him he looked better with hair gel because his curls were “a hot mess”. He gives Kurt his own level look, “You’re really direct, you know that?” 

Kurt preens a bit, examining his nails. “And fabulous, too,” he says with a flair of his hand that makes Blaine laugh, which makes Kurt laugh. Blaine is sure it’s a real laugh, something he hasn’t been lucky enough to see yet. It makes Kurt look young in a completely different way; his eyes crinkle and his teeth shine in the light from the overheads. 

“No, really, I’ve been told I can be pretty direct. But also…” Kurt pauses and bites his lip. This does something incredible to Blaine, whose fingers begin to tingle. “I don’t know. I feel…something…familiar? I’m comfortable with you. That’s not-- I mean, I-- I don’t…” Blaine is treated to a new side of Kurt: stammering and blushing. He’s only known this boy for a few hours, but it feels like longer. Each new facet he uncovers is like a present, hidden under paper and peeled away slowly. Kurt is birthdays and Christmas; he’s expectation and surprise and gleeful discovery. 

And _whoa_ , that’s a pretty intense line of thought to be having about a boy he doesn’t even know. Especially when he has a boyfriend. 

The thought is like cold water. Blaine tries to keep his show face on as Kurt stammers to a pause, still red-faced. 

“Kurt, it’s okay,” he interrupts, keeping his voice low. “I think I know what you mean.” He’s tempted to take Kurt’s hand, to do anything that might convey comfort and acceptance, even though he knows he won’t. It wouldn’t be an appropriate gesture. 

“Yeah?” Kurt sips his drink, settling his shoulders as he calms down. “Good. I don’t want to sound like a creepy stalker or anything. I swear, my shrine to you is tiny.” His eyes smile as he jokes. Blaine steers the conversation in the same direction, with lighthearted banter as they get to know each other a little more, taking small steps in the same direction. 

Later, when they are parting at the stairwell to their rooms, Kurt stops him with a light press of his fingers to Blaine’s shoulder. “If you ever do need someone to talk to, or just a shoulder, I’m here. I… I’m no stranger to… well.” Kurt shrugs, looking embarrassed and uncomfortable. 

Blaine smiles, ducking his head shyly. “Yeah.” He hopes that conveys everything he means to say: _It’s okay, you don’t have to explain_ and _Thank you, maybe I will_. 

“Okay. Well… thanks, Blaine. I had a good time.” Kurt steps up, and Blaine wishes they didn’t have to part just yet. The only things he has to look forward to are Jeff interrogating him and a term paper. Oh, and a phone call to Ryan. He sighs. 

“I did, too, thank you. Maybe we can hang out later?” Kurt’s smile is bright again, almost too bright. It burns Blaine’s retinas like the sun, and he’s sure if he looks away, he’ll see nothing but the shape of those lips and teeth, faded and floating in front of his eyes. “I’d love that. Text me.” With that, Kurt pats his arm and climbs up the stairs. Blaine takes a moment to admire Kurt’s peacoat before turning to go down to the lower level of the dorm. 

When he opens the door, he sees that Jeff isn’t there. Thankful, he moves into the darkened room, flipping on his small desk lamp and booting up his laptop. It’s past seven, and he knows that Ryan is probably expecting a call. Blaine has a lot of work to catch up on, reading and that paper, but he knows that if he calls Ryan now, he can use homework as an excuse to cut things short. He picks up his phone with a feeling of trepidation. It’s wrong to hope that Ryan might change for him, but if he’s going to be trapped in this relationship, some changes on Ryan’s end might make things a more bearable 

He lucks out (which, he later reflects, is a terrible way to feel about one’s boyfriend. But thoughts like that aren’t new). Ryan’s phone is either off or dead, so he leaves a quick message. 

“Hey, it’s me. Just checking in. I have a lot of work to catch up on tonight, so I’m going to turn off my phone. Have a good night… love you.” He hangs up the phone and sits in the quiet before turning on some music and cracking open his history text.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to underage drinking and driving under the influence.

The first time Blaine met Ryan, he wasn’t terribly impressed; he remembers that much. They’d met on the big staircase at Dalton: Ryan was new and lost, and Blaine had helped him find his class and then promptly forgotten about him.

The second time Blaine saw Ryan was at a party. Blaine was very, very drunk. Memories from that night have always been blurry, but Blaine remembers drinking some disgusting concoction of mixed liquors poured into a barrel. He remembers talking to Ryan and realizing that Ryan was gay -- only the second gay student he’d ever met at Dalton. The only other thing he remembers was crawling onto a sofa to pass out and curling up next to Ryan, who had been sweet and just as drunk as he was. 

The next morning was horrible; first of all, he’d had the worst hangover of his life. Then he misjudged the space between his car and the edge of the garage, managing to mangle his side mirror. In retrospect, he realized that he was probably still drunk, but, at the time, he’d been too young and unused to drinking to realize how long it could take to sober up. 

It was the third time he saw Ryan that clinched things. He was at another party- they weren’t uncommon at his school. Like Blaine, a lot of schoolmates boarded, mainly because their parents traveled a lot. It seemed that one student or another was hosting an empty house party every weekend. Up until his junior year, Blaine hadn’t attended them very often. But he had grown tired of being the perfect son who got excellent grades while hidden carefully out of sight. Of being the perfect front man for the Warblers, always energetic, happy, and ready with a pep talk or pat on the back. Of being the guy whom others sought for advice but never really saw. 

He’d ended the night on the floor behind the couch snuggling with Ryan. He was drunk and in some strange way it felt like he wasn’t even there, not really in his body. So he watched in a distant way as Ryan moved closer and kissed him. He felt himself kiss back, both present and not. When Ryan asked him if he’d be his boyfriend, his mouth formed the word “yes” while his brain thought, _I don’t even know you_ and then _I guess that’s okay, though_. 

In retrospect, it was perhaps not the most auspicious start to a relationship. 

~*~ 

By Tuesday afternoon, Blaine is dragging. He’d stayed up until 3 a.m. to finish a term paper, only to find it riddled with typos and badly formatted references he’d had to rush to fix before running to class. He’s dreaming of a nap as he shuffles back from class; he has at least three hours before his next class and he intends to use them on sleep. In deference to the unseasonably warm weather he’d donned socks and torn flip-flops this morning, and he’s dragging his track pants through puddles of melting snow as he ambles across campus, listening to his iPod in a daze. 

All of these probably contribute to him not hearing Kurt until the other boy reaches out, plucking an earbud from Blaine’s head and scaring him quite badly. 

“Oh! Holy shit, Kurt!” Hand to his heart, Blaine steps out of the melting embankment of snow he’s stepped into, shaking his soaked foot with annoyance. 

“Sorry.” Sheepishly, Kurt hands back his earphone, smile glittering in the watery sunlight. He looks…wonderful. Seeing Kurt, Blaine feels a wave of embarrassment. His own hair is curling and sticking up in mad tufts, he’s wearing his oldest and most tattered lounging clothes, and he hadn’t even had time to wash his face that morning. 

Kurt, on the other hand, is put together with precision and an attention to detail that makes Blaine’s head swim. He even has a brooch -- or two, it’s hard to tell -- of two wooden ducks placed carefully on the lapel of yet another gorgeous cashmere coat. 

Tiny sounds float from Blaine’s freed earbuds. He ducks his head and stammers out an apology that Kurt just waves off. They start walking; Kurt is apparently going in the same direction. 

“What are you listening to?” 

“‘The Ugly Organ’? By Cursive?” Blaine isn’t sure why everything he says is coming out as a question; he only knows that he feels self-conscious and flustered. 

“Never heard of it.” Kurt says, Blaine smiles at him; he’s staring without shame at Blaine’s hair. His hand comes up, stopping just short of Blaine’s head. “Can I?” 

Blaine shrugs miserably. “Uh… sure?” 

Kurt’s fingers are light, tracing pinpricks over Blaine’s scalp as he tugs on the curls. Blaine knows he needs a haircut desperately and looks a mess without his gel. 

“I need a haircut,” he defends. “And I overslept and had a fiasco with my term paper, so I basically ran to class without getting properly dressed.” He gestures toward his sweater and pants, one foot sodden and freezing. Kurt removes his hand from Blaine’s hair, smiling and gesturing for Blaine to follow him. Blaine’s scalp tingles with the ghosting reminder of Kurt’s fingers in his hair. 

“Your foot must be freezing. Come on let’s go in. You can invite me to your room and tell me more about this band.” Disconcerted, Blaine watches as Kurt strides confidently toward the dorm. He’s tired and still aching for a nap, but intrigued. When Kurt turns to shoot a look back at Blaine, his smile catches the sun and Blaine has to blink to be sure he’s seeing clearly. 

~*~ 

Nervously, Blaine opens the door to his room. He isn’t a terribly messy guy, but Jeff is; as a result, their room exists in a semi-permanent state of upheaval. The only break in the chaos is Blaine’s desk, which he keeps obsessively organized. He often feels it’s the only thing in his life that he has any modicum of control over. 

“Sorry about the mess,” Blaine says, running his hand nervously through his hair and wincing at the feel of the freed curls. “Jeff is… a bit of a slob.” 

Kurt just shrugs, wiggling out of his coat before turning to Blaine. “Can I hang this?” For a moment, Blaine just stares because while the coat is fabulous, the clothes underneath it are… well, he doesn’t quite have the words. He nods, then opens his half of the closet to retrieve a hanger, carefully arranging Kurt’s coat. As he hangs it he catches a whiff of something spicy but sweet. His red cardigan hangs next to Kurt’s coat; he hopes that the next time he wears it, he might smell lingering traces of Kurt. 

The thought hasn’t even fully formed before he flushes red with chagrin. He has a boyfriend and a chance at having a friend, a _real_ friend, in Kurt. He cannot allow himself to see Kurt in any other way. Chastising himself, he pushes his cardigan a little farther away from Kurt’s coat so they won’t touch. 

Kurt is sitting in his desk chair, which squeaks when he swings side to side, looking around Blaine’s room with interest. “By the way, before I forget,” he says, “your hair-- you should leave it without the gel more often. It really works for you. With a little styling, I mean.” Blaine smiles, a reflex he can’t control. Kurt’s words are both a compliment and a slight dig. The way he manages to deliver them, with an upward tilt of his chin and an appraising look in his eyes, feels like acceptance. He thinks there might also be some mild judgment in there, but he suspects that, from Kurt, this is nothing more than affection. 

“Hmmm,” Blaine responds. “We’ll see. Ryan doesn’t really like my hair curly.” It isn’t what he wanted to say; he bites his lip as soon as the words are out. He hates when he let things like that slip, knows that saying things like that makes Ryan seem controlling, or himself seem weak and passive. Flustered, he continues, “I mean, when we were in high school, I guess, I mean, my hair was always the bane of my life until Ryan showed me how to tame it.” Kurt is still smiling, watching Blaine settle in a flustered heap on the futon in the corner. 

“Well, maybe one day you’ll let me show you some tricks. Makeovers…” Kurt’s face is almost wistful. Blaine can see something -- an old memory perhaps, bittersweet and tender -- flit across it. “They’re like crack to me.” And yes, it is definitely something Kurt remembered; the private look, the closed smile, and the averted eyes are a dead giveaway. Blaine might not be that adept at understanding himself, but reading other people is definitely his strength, and if his skills are to be trusted at all, there is also some… longing? Something sad is layered over those words, something that makes the caregiver in him ache to fix, to uncover and unfold and make whatever it is _better_. 

They sit for a few minutes in silence, Kurt watching as Blaine examines him. Soon, it becomes uncomfortable, and Kurt clears his throat. “So, tell me about this band of yours.” He tucks one leg under him, knee up near his chin, “Unless-- I’m sorry, do you have somewhere you need to be?” 

Blaine just shakes his head, smiling. “No, I have a break. But I am gonna change, because I felt like a slob _before_ I saw you, but now I just feel criminal.” He laughs, pushing through his closet for some clothes and his dresser for socks before turning toward the bathroom. “Do you mind?” He gestures with the clothes, and Kurt shakes his head, already thumbing through the piles of books next to Blaine’s desk. 

He changes in the bathroom quickly, trying -- without much success -- to tame his hair without the safety of his gel. Frustrated, he gives up, emerging to find Kurt flipping through a paperback for his Women in Lit class. “Fan of Woolf?” He asks casually, causing Kurt to jump. 

“I’m sorry, do you mind? I just kind of made myself at home,” Kurt says, a little tentative and unsure, which makes Blaine smile wider. 

“No.” A bit shyly, Blaine sits on the futon again, crossing his legs and tucking his feet under him. “I kind of like it.” 

“So...” Kurt waggles Blaine’s iPod, which he’d stowed carefully on his desk. 

“Yeah. It’s-- I mean… what kind of music are you into?” Blaine starts self-consciously. Kurt shrugs, so he continues, frowning a little. “It’s not…I’m not really into the band so much as just that one album. A friend in high school turned me on to it, and it’s just-- sometimes it…” Blaine searches for the right words. 

“Sometimes I go months without even thinking about it, and sometimes I just listen to it obsessively on repeat,” Blaine is warming up to the topic now, gesturing with his hands, face bright with enthusiasm. “See, it’s sort of like a play, the CD. It’s about this guy, and he’s struggling because he feels like he needs to suffer to create in order to be a true artist. He’s pandering to what his fans want, creating suffering and fucking up his life so he can find things to write music about. He’s with this woman and it’s… it’s so intense, the way that he’s destroying them, and her, and just making a mess of his life. By halfway through, he’s not even sure he’s real anymore, or what is real, if what he’s creating is reality or if he’s just a liar. And it gets so ugly, and the music is so raw. It mirrors what he is doing and going through perfectly-- sometimes the music itself is ugly and hard to listen to, but it’s so _honest_.” He has to pause for a minute, wanting to make sure that Kurt doesn’t think he’s a freak, but Kurt is just waiting and watching, so he continues. 

“Well, that all sounds really depressing, and by the time you’re almost done it’s _really_ depressing. He’s driven her away, and he has this crushing guilt, like he murdered her because he was destroying her. At some point, he realizes how much damage he’s done, and he sees her. She’s living a different life, and she has a daughter. He has this moment when he realizes that her daughter could have been his and that he could have had that life. He could have been making something wonderful out of his life. The last song is just so…” Blaine’s eyes are closed. “It’s so uplifting. He’s still so broken, but it’s this huge surge and outpouring of hope, and he’s realizing that the worst is over.” His eyes open; he seeks Kurt out earnestly. “The sunrise is just over the hill, and he’s past the worst of it, because he sees now what he could have had, and what he does have, and what he wants. It’s just… incredible.” 

Blinking, he realizes his eyes are tearing up. He wipes the moisture away. “Oh my god, you must think I am so stupid.” He’s buried his face in his hands when he hears Kurt’s huffed breath. 

“I think nothing of the sort. I’m… I like this. I love music-- love to sing and to let it move me…” Kurt waits for Blaine to look at him. “I like that it moves you, too.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wargnings: internalized slut shaming, references to casual sex with strangers, blink and you miss it references to dubcon situations.

It’s strange, Blaine thinks a few days later, how naturally and completely he and Kurt have fallen into friendship. Meeting in the cafeteria for meals when their schedules line up, going out for coffee, even studying together in Kurt’s room, which is quieter and neater than his.

They stick to surface streets at first, talking about family in general terms and their friends from home. Blaine doesn’t talk about Ryan, not even when he’s interrupted mid-meal by a phone call he doesn’t hesitate to take. After the second time it happens, when he disappears from the cafeteria and doesn’t come back, Kurt takes his tray of uneaten food and throws it away. He carefully wraps a bagel in a napkin and searches Blaine out. 

When Kurt goes outside he finds Blaine in the courtyard, pacing through the snow, voice quiet and strained. Seeing Kurt, Blaine blushes and looks down, shrugging helplessly. Kurt smiles, handing him the bagel and miming that he’ll call Blaine later. The look he gets in return could almost be considered a smile. 

It’s that day-- night, really -- that they first talk about Ryan. They’ve been studying in silence, listening to the Avenue Q soundtrack. Every now and then, Blaine forgets himself and starts singing along, stopping only when he can feel Kurt glancing at him curiously. 

“He’s not always like that, you know?” Blaine blurts, startling himself and Kurt. 

“Like what?” Kurt asks. One of the things Blaine likes best about Kurt is the way he controls the inflection of his sentences; this one is completely free of judgment. Blaine is learning by now that while Kurt has a sarcastic side and a definite bitchy streak, he’s also very compassionate, loyal, and very kind. 

“I--“ Blaine looks down. “I’m not sure I know.” 

Kurt is quiet for a bit. “Are you afraid that I’m judging either of you?” Kurt finally asks. 

“I guess so?” Blaine shrugs, miserably wondering why he’s even started this line of conversation. 

“Blaine,” Kurt says, coming to sit next to him, “I’ve gathered that you’ve had a lot of that -- of friends judging you. I don’t really know enough about anything to understand what is going on, but maybe…” Kurt worries his lip. “Maybe, when or if you’re comfortable, you can talk to me. Without worrying about what I think or about having to have the right answers.” 

Blaine looks up sharply at this, and Kurt just smiles a little. It’s a tight smile, but his eyes are still kind. 

“I have the sense that you try to do that. To make everyone around you happy?” Kurt’s question doesn’t even seem like a question really, so Blaine doesn’t respond, staring at the floor under his feet instead, stomach knotting and tensing. “It must be exhausting, trying to balance it all. Making sure Ryan is happy, answering to people who aren’t happy that you’re with him.” 

Blaine shrugs; he feels exposed and confused. Kurt pats his knee, then gets up to go back to his chair. Standing above Blaine, he pauses, resting his hand cautiously on top of Blaine’s head. It’s fleeting, just the smallest gesture of comfort. Blaine sighs, deeply. 

“It is.” 

~*~ 

A week later finds them in the student lounge with Kurt’s roommate, Kevin, and best friend, Mercedes, who is visiting Kurt. They’re laughing and talking about high school experiences; Kurt and Mercedes have them in stitches with stories about their glee club when they’re interrupted. 

“Hey!” A tall student, wearing what Blaine privately always thinks of as ‘all-American jock with no sense of style beyond the community brain’, approaches them. He‘s handsome -- dark hair and obviously fit -- but Blaine easily spots the way Kurt tenses, shooting Mercedes apologetic glances. “Kirk, right?” nameless guy asks, smiling at them all and then at Kurt. There’s something a little predatory about the way he smiles at Kurt, though, and it has Blaine’s hackles rising. 

Kurt answers quietly, “Kurt, actually.” His face is red and his hands are fisted, white knuckled fingers knotting together in his lap. Mercedes is shooting Kurt what can only be described as a mix of curious and slightly judgemental looks. Honestly, Blaine is really confused by the whole thing. 

“Kurt, yeah, right.” It’s obvious by now that nameless boy doesn’t really care one way or another. “Didn’t realize you were a student here. Barely caught your name before you were in and out.” Now Blaine is sure that there is something leering in this guy’s tone, and, from the horrified looks Kurt is darting at him, Blaine knows this is not going anywhere good. Acting before he thinks, he stands, grabbing his books and tugging Kurt to his feet. 

“You know what, Kurt, we’re gonna be late for our next class if we don’t get going.” He moves fast, grabbing Kurt’s books and shooting Mercedes a level look that suggests maybe she could have stepped in. Kurt’s hand is trembling in his, and Blaine is beyond angry -- at the nameless boy, who seems to be going out of his way to shame Kurt; at Mercedes, who seems to be intent on shooting Kurt “I told you so” glares; and at Kevin, who is somehow managing to blithely ignore the whole scene unfolding before him. 

He pulls Kurt as he walks, hand in the crook of Kurt’s elbow, steering them outside and down the street, walking without direction, until Kurt’s quiet voice stops him. 

“Where are we going? We don’t have any classes together.” Blaine turns to him, crowding close to him in order to avoid a bicyclist. He doesn’t miss the surge of heat that washes through him, nor the way Kurt stiffens, jaw tilted up and taut with stress. Stepping back carefully, he speaks as if nothing has happened. 

“Where do you want to go? Do you want to go back to your room and be alone, or do you want to get some coffee?” 

Blaine takes a good look at him. Kurt is paler than usual, and his lips are bright red from being bitten. Blaine has the sudden and frightening urge to kiss Kurt, to lean in and soothe away Kurt’s distress. Stepping back even further, he swallows his guilt and tries a smile. 

“I… I guess… I--” Kurt is playing nervously with his scarf, twisting it in a way that Blaine knows is bad for the weave. Taking Kurt’s hand and stilling it, he turns, motioning to be followed. Kurt tenses again when Blaine touches him. Blaine has always been a casual toucher: maybe a bit less since he and Ryan have been dating, but still. Kurt, on the other hand, seems to value his personal space, even more so when he’s upset like he is now. Blaine files that information away. 

“Is Jeff around?” Kurt asks. He’s walking behind him with his head down; Blaine has to strain to hear him. 

“Yeah,” Blaine says. He’d been heading back toward the dorms; he wants to talk to Kurt alone. He has an idea that whatever is going on with that guy in the lounge isn’t the sort of conversation appropriate for a public venue. Kurt’s sigh isn’t lost on him, but Blaine chooses not to comment on it. 

“We can go to my room; Kevin has class the rest of the afternoon anyway,” Kurt offers. “Do you?” 

Shaking his head, Blaine opens the heavy old door for Kurt, who shoots him a mild look before sailing in. His tight smile is slightly more natural than its predecessor, which makes Blaine smile. Sometime during the walk back, Kurt has managed to pull himself back together. Blaine follows behind as Kurt swings gracefully up the stairs, admiring his boots. 

Once in Kurt’s room, Blaine takes off his coat and scarf, folding them over the arm of one of the recovered armchairs. He’s a little envious; Kurt has really lucked out with Kevin as a roommate -- not only is he pretty neat, but he’s let Kurt do what he wants with the room. Like all of their rooms it’s pretty small, but Kurt has managed to create a cozy space with small armchairs and an interesting rug in one corner. 

Blaine sits for a moment, watching as Kurt hangs his coat and fusses with his scarf for a bit, until the silence feels genuinely uncomfortable. “Do you remember last week, when you told me if I ever wanted to talk to you, I could, and you wouldn’t judge me or make me feel like I had to have all right answers?” 

Kurt turns from the closet, nimble hands still smoothing his sweater. His face is unreadable and a little distant; he shrugs and turns away. “Yes. I don’t remember you taking me up on the offer.” Blaine’s shoulders hunch, which is a defensive reflex. He can feel it in his stomach, worry that lies heavy and thick inside. Kurt sits in the chair next to him, smiling a little more naturally. “I’m sorry, forget I said that. I meant what I said before, and whenever you decide you want to talk to me, I’m here okay?” Kurt is looking at him, really _looking_. This is the Kurt he sometimes sees when they are alone -- open and tentative. Softer and less sure. 

“I will… you know,” Blaine gestures with his hand, “I’m just working on finding the right words.” He watches Kurt curl up, tucking both long legs under himself, leaning his head on a hand as he studies Blaine. 

“They don’t have to be right all the time, you know.” 

They watch each other for a long moment. “Anyway, didn’t we come up here so _you_ could talk?” Blaine asks lightly, regretting it when Kurt draws back a little, turning to look out the window. “What I was trying to say earlier was that I am not here to judge you. I have no ground to stand on, really.” Kurt turns back at this, eyes bluer than usual, face tense. 

“What does that mean?” Blaine studies Kurt’s thinned lips and sighs, wondering if there is any right way to approach this. He has a pretty good idea who the boy in the lounge is -- or, at least, what he’s been to Kurt. 

“Do you know when the first time I saw you was?” Blaine asks, toeing off his shoes and slouching down in his chair. He leans his head against the back and turns to look at Kurt. “It was at Spiral, right at the start of the school year. I was sitting at a table alone and waiting for some friends to come back, and you were a few tables down, alone too.” 

“Hmmm,” Kurt says, running one finger against his lips. “Seems a little strange you’d remember a random stranger you saw once in a club.” Blaine has to laugh. “What?” Kurt asks, posture stiff. 

“First, no. Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?” Blaine blushes as he says it but is gratified by Kurt’s response, which is flustered and really kind of adorable. “Even if I hadn’t seen you later that night, I would have remembered you.” Kurt looks up at this. 

“Oh?” Blaine can tell that Kurt is trying to sound casual, but the way his hand is braced a little against the arm of the chair gives him away. 

“I had decided to leave without my friends, because I was having a terrible time, and I had to go to the bathroom.” He speaks carefully, watching Kurt, who is slowly flushing red and refusing to meet his eyes. There’s a long moment in which many things pass between them unspoken, and when Blaine speaks again, it’s gently. “You ran into me on your way out of… the stall. But, before you came out, I heard you-- you say… that you’d never done that before.” 

Kurt turns away completely, one hand over his face. Blaine wants to reach out, to grab Kurt’s hand or hug him, _anything_ , but he’s pretty sure that any attempt at comfort will just make things worse. After a moment, he adds, “up close, you were even more gorgeous than I had thought. There was something about you…” Blaine swallows, “that just… it’s like you had crawled under my skin. I’d see you, in the dorms or in the cafeteria. You seemed so… together, so confident. It’s probably creepy, but a part of me felt like I understood something that no one else did. That you were sort of like me -- one thing on the outside, one person for everyone else, and someone completely different on the inside. ” Blaine laughs, nerves making his hands shake. His words trip over each other as Kurt sits silently, tears sliding down his cheeks. To Blaine, he’s so beautiful it’s very nearly tragic. 

He lets Kurt sit for a few moments, watching out of the corner of his eye as Kurt breathes, wiping his face, still looking out over the snow covered campus. After a bit, Blaine stands, asking, “want some water?” Kurt nods. As he passes Kurt, Blaine decides to take a chance, laying a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. After a hesitation, Kurt’s hand comes up, squeezing back. 

~*~ 

Blaine meant what he said to Kurt about not having room to judge. Which is sort of an ironic thing to think, considering how much time he spends lying awake, judging himself: for his choices, for his lack of conviction, for the ways he finds it so much easier to give up parts of himself than to fight. For nights when it is all he can do to breathe through the self-loathing that coats him, making him feel just this side of crazy when Ryan’s hands find their way around and into him. For nights when the only way he makes it through is to go -- to leave his body as a thing to be used, turning to look out over his room, toward the closed window, before closing his eyes and pretending he is anywhere else, anybody else. 

~*~ 

“Do you think I’m disgusting?” 

Blaine’s head pops up at Kurt’s half-whispered question. They’ve been working in shared silence, Kurt curled up on Blaine’s futon with a blanket draped over his lap, laptop perched precariously on his knees. 

“Umm, what?” Blaine turns in his chair _(god, he really needs to fix that squeak)_ and stares at Kurt through his glasses in confusion. Kurt just shoots him a mild glare before turning back to his laptop, shoulders tensed in a line. Running through Kurt’s words again (in his defense, he’d been deep in thought about the nature of post-colonial rhetoric and the roles of women in Latin American countries), Blaine tries again, “Kurt-” 

He hates the way Kurt’s whole body reacts, tightening and shrinking in even as he tries to project a haughty face, as if Blaine can’t read him better than that by now. Stumped, Blaine tries to find the right words, the right tone. “I could never, ever think that about you, trust me. About myself may--“ He shakes his head as if to clear it. Now is definitely not the right time, if there ever is one, to try to decipher the complicated ways he is fucking up his own life. 

“Kurt, come on, look at me?” But Kurt just bites his lip and turns away. Frustrated, Blaine gets up, taking Kurt’s computer from his clutching fingers and setting it aside, coming to sit close to Kurt’s drawn up knees, practically on his feet. Hand carefully on Kurt’s knee, he shakes it a bit. “Do you want me to judge you? Would that make it easier for you?” 

Looking down into his lap, watching his hands play with his cuticles, Kurt whispers. “No.” Blaine just cocks his head, settling back against the cushions and waiting for Kurt to talk. “You… I mean I know you have some idea, b-because of that night, but…I’m so ashamed, I can-- I don’t even want to tell you the rest of it, god, you’re going to think I’m so disgusting.” 

“No. Kurt, look at me. _Kurt_.” Impatient, Blaine takes Kurt’s chin in his hand, leaning against his tented knees, “No. I could never think that of you, ever. I don’t care what you’ve done. I know you, and you are an amazing person and an incredible friend.” 

“And a slut.” Kurt’s tone is vicious, voice quiet but full of steel. 

“Don’t you _ever_ call yourself that.” 

“But it’s true!” Kurt shakes Blaine’s hand off of his face, swatting his hands away and pulling in on himself. 

“Kurt, can I ask you something?” Blaine folds his hands in his lap; Kurt is closing off more and more. When Kurt nods, the tears in his eyes belie the angry set of his beautiful face. 

“If you had a friend, or even someone you knew, who was confident with themselves and their sexuality, who was comfortable with casual sex and made no excuses for themselves -- would you call them a slut?” 

Kurt’s head whips around so fast his hair actually comes loose, which seems to annoy and fluster him more. “Okay, that’s a hypothetical. That doesn’t even begin to compare to--“ 

“Oh, but I’m not comparing. I’m asking about this one situation,” Blaine interrupts. Kurt’s face scrunches adorably as he thinks this over. 

“Well, no. I mean, if they were okay with it-- I don’t judge people for thinking about things differently than I do.” Kurt rolls his eyes, which are a startling blue today. “I mean, unless it has to do with terrible taste in music or poor fashion choices.” 

“So, how do you think about… things?” Blaine asks cautiously, treading tentatively back into dangerous territory. He smiles a bit when Kurt just sighs and lays his head against the side of the futon, his body slowly unwinding a bit, loosening into the pillows. He seems younger, softer, and Blaine wants badly to gather him up and just cuddle. 

“I… when I was younger and my dad sat me down for ‘the talk’,” -- Blaine laughs at the face Kurt makes at the phrase, the way his fingers curl around the air quotes -- “well, I mean, I kind of wanted to die of embarrassment at first, but he… my dad is so incredible.” Homesickness is clear in every line of Kurt’s face and Blaine feels a pang, something like hurting and maybe jealousy, deep in the pit of his stomach. 

“He told me that the most important thing to remember was that I mattered. And not to throw myself around, but to use sex as a way to be closer to someone.” He looks up at Blaine then, eyes fierce and, for a moment, so old. “And I meant to, I did. But… god, you have no idea what it was like to grow up in Lima. I was never enough of a boy to be one of the guys; they always treated me like I was diseased, even when they were nice to me. My friends -- even my step-brother-- never touching me, or going out of their way to avoid accidentally touching me. And the girls -- I was always just an honorary girl until it wasn’t convenient, like when my friend Britt ran against me for student council on a women’s rights platform. Suddenly I was just another guy.” Kurt’s laugh is rueful but laden with something heavy, and Blaine’s heart hurts hearing it. 

“I was just… so lonely.” Blaine meets his glance with a nod, because, god, if there is anything he understands, it is loneliness. “And then I came here, and… it was just so _okay_. So okay to be gay. That first night in the club, it was like the more I drank, the more okay it all seemed. Everything went so fast; it all spiraled out of control so fast. Before that night, I’d never had a kiss that counted, and then suddenly I was in that bathroom and--” 

Blaine puts a tentative hand back on Kurt’s knee when he pauses, worrying his lip, cheeks flushed. Kurt flicks back his hair impatiently. “There seemed little point in going back after that -- even when I thought I wanted to, it just -- I felt so powerful and so… _wanted_.” He whispers that last part, startling when Blaine’s chin comes to rest on his knee. 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting to feel wanted, Kurt.” 

Kurt sighs impatiently, his shifting body giving away his discomfort. Kurt rarely fidgets, somehow more in control of his body than anyone Blaine has ever met. He meets Kurt’s eyes in the silence, and Kurt’s hand comes up, a little tentative, threading through Blaine’s loose curls. 

“But there is, Blaine, when it’s not who you are. It’s not who I am. I want someone. I want to be boring and in love and with the same person. I want monogamy and courtship and romance. It’s wrong when you do something to yourself that you know is going to hurt. I go out,” he looks away, blinking rapidly, hand loosely fisted on his other knee, not even realizing his fingers are brushing against Blaine’s cheek. When Kurt looks back, he seems surprised to find his hand there and slides it slowly down his leg. Blaine tries not to miss the warmth of his fingers. 

“When you wake up in the morning and you hate yourself so much you want to throw up, or hit something, or just never get out of bed-- then, it’s wrong.” 

And it is like a punch, literally, to Blaine’s gut, hearing those words. Instinctively he pulls away, trying to mask his reaction to Kurt’s words. This is about Kurt, about being sure that Kurt knows he is here for him, that he doesn’t judge him in anyway. 

“Blaine?” Kurt sits forward, putting a careful hand on Blaine’s shoulder. 

“I’m fine, it’s just hard… to hear you say things like that about yourself.” His smile feels forced and false, but Kurt seems to accept what he’s saying. “I don’t want to hear you call yourself things like that anymore. If you want more, if you want someone like you described, then go for it. Don’t punish yourself.” The wistful smile on Kurt’s face almost hurts more than his earlier words did. 

“Don’t you think it’s a little late? I mean, no one’s going to want me now.” 

“Oh, Kurt.” Blaine doesn’t even try to stop himself, pulling Kurt into a hug, which is tentatively reciprocated. “That is so far from true.” When he pulls back, he finds himself looking into Kurt’s eyes. “Trust me when I say that any guy would be _so_ lucky to have you.” 

Kurt just stares back, hands around Blaine’s biceps, and, for a second, Blaine is sure he sees Kurt’s eyes flicker to his lips. Dizzy and confused, Blaine lets himself feel -- feel close to this boy, this ridiculously good-looking boy who is sweet and sassy and who makes him feel alive and good inside his own skin. 

Until his phone rings with Ryan’s ringtone. 

Guilty, he fumbles back, almost tripping and falling to the floor in his haste, missing the look of longing and regret on Kurt’s face.


	6. Chapter 6

Blaine can tell Kurt doesn’t like Ryan very much, even though Kurt goes out of his way _not_ to let him know. The thing is, Blaine is extraordinarily adept at reading people and how they feel about each other. He does appreciate that Kurt is so careful to act neutral, even when Ryan is not around. It makes it easier to think about what he’d say, were he ever to take Kurt up on his offer to talk.

Ryan, on the other hand, has no qualms about letting Blaine know he doesn’t approve of Kurt. 

Blaine often wishes he could put a finger on the moment when things went from easy and good to... well, this. He doesn’t understand himself or Ryan or how they’ve ended up like this. And he doesn’t know why he feels it so much -- how deeply it hurts him when Ryan is hurting, the need to protect him from any sort of disappointment. He has a visceral need to take care of and carry the weight of Ryan’s emotions. 

He tries but can’t understand the way he can love Ryan and still want to run away, the guilt he carries alongside the crushing weight of responsibility. Ryan’s needs and emotions are a weight yoking his shoulders. Blaine often feels like he’s a bad boyfriend to Ryan; there are these small, selfish pockets of him, pushing and pressing against his temples and gut that want someone to take care of _his_ feelings. Places inside that ache for a moment when Ryan isn’t at the forefront of every thought and consideration. 

Because he is. Blaine spends his days with Ryan in a state of constant panic. Will Ryan approve of what he’s wearing? Is Ryan angry that he’s joking with Jeff again, or talking about that night he and Kurt watched old episodes of _Project Runway_ and laughed their asses off? And, god, how is he going to tell Ryan about his new job, which includes mandatory weekend shifts? 

This is why Blaine loves weekdays without him. Even though he still carries a lot of worry and stress, weekdays provide him with a little break. Moments when he can breathe, think about other things, other people, and, occasionally, even himself. 

It’s almost funny now, the way Blaine knows a fight is coming before anything has even happened. He always tries to prepare himself, tries to find his defense and batten down the hatches -- which is ironic, really, because it’s always completely fruitless. 

Blaine doesn’t know how Ryan does it, but somehow, every time it ends the same way. He’ll start a conversation knowing he’s done nothing wrong and ready to stand steadfast by that belief, but inevitably, by the end of the phone call or argument he’s apologizing sincerely, feeling terrible and guilty and confused as hell because wasn’t he right? He’s not, though. He’s never sure how it works, but Ryan has this way of making Blaine doubt everything and turning all of his words inside out and rearranging them, quite often leaving Blaine in doubt of his own sanity. 

~*~ 

Thursday night finds Blaine in a sort of panic. He’s come home from his late class to find Jeff in an uproar about something Lisa has done and his room is full of slightly drunk and angry boys playing video games and disparaging all women. They’ve pressed shots on him (which he’s declined politely). For a while, he’s having fun and joking around, until he gets a text from Kurt 

_Thank god this week is almost over. PR + gin night?_

He hasn’t even managed a smile before he sees the time, dread settling into his stomach when he realizes it is already 9 and he hasn’t called Ryan. Fuck. 

He knows there is no way he’ll be able to have a coherent conversation in his own room, so Blaine decides to call Ryan on his way to Kurt’s. 

_It’ll be fine_ , he tells himself, dialing Ryan’s number. 

But it isn’t. By the time he gets to Kurt’s room, he’s still on the phone with Ryan. 

~*~ 

“Babe, I’m sorry, I said I just forgot.” Kurt opens the door to a flushed Blaine. His head is down, one hand tugging through his gelled curls. Wordlessly, Kurt pulls Blaine in, seeing a few of his floormates eying Blaine curiously. No one has any sense of privacy on his floor, and he knows enough from eavesdropping that Blaine’s disaster of a relationship is spoken of even up here (it might be wrong to eavesdrop, but how else would he know what people think about him? It’s so much more fun to judge their catastrophic wardrobe failures when he knows who deserved his most vindictive thoughts). 

Once inside, Blaine winces, mouthing an apology and looking so ashamed it actually hurts Kurt a little. He does his best not to listen, which is hard, and not to judge, which is harder. All he can hear on his end are flustered apologies for what seems to be a rather ridiculous argument. 

“No, I’m not saying I don’t think about you, I just got distr-- ...no, come on, Ryan, please don’t be like that, I never mean to worry you, I know…” Kurt bites his lip, fumbling at his computer as if he’s working on something. “No, I know you care about me and you were just upset, but I can’t do anything more than apologize right now.” Kurt turns to see Blaine, eyes shut and hand clenched in a fist on his knee. 

“Ryan, please. _Please_ don’t be like this. I’m _sorry_.” Blaine’s head is tipped back now, eyes staring at the ceiling. “No, I didn’t mean that your feelings aren’t important, of course I care, I just don’t know how to fix this, please just tell me what I can say.” It’s very hard to keep his back turned and pretend to respect Blaine’s privacy. Nearly 20 minutes of apology later, Blaine’s voice has gone from desperate to make better to hollow and defeated. 

“I don’t know what else to say. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I can’t-- Ryan, you promised we weren’t going to do this anymore. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.” Kurt turns. Blaine is curled up in an arm chair, arms crossed over himself. Kurt starts to stand, then stops. Blaine is so different than him, more affectionate and open and casual about touching. He wants to go and sit next to him, lay a supportive hand on his arm, but he doesn’t know if that is what Blaine really needs or wants. Besides, doing so would just prove he’s been listening. Even though Blaine must know there’s no way for him _not_ to listen in the small room, the least he can do is extend the illusion of privacy. 

~*~ 

Once he’s finally hung up, Blaine is pretty sure he wants to throw up. Ryan is still upset with him, only Blaine doesn’t know how to fix it and _god_ , doesn’t Ryan know that by now? That Blaine would rather do anything than hurt or upset him, both because it is in his nature but also because the sheer amount of work and energy it takes to make things better is not worth the fight, ever? 

“Bad day?” Kurt’s acerbic tone startles him out of his thoughts, then makes him laugh. _Really_ laugh. 

“Yes. God, absolutely, yes.” 

Kurt stands, pausing behind him to drop a too fleeting hug with one arm around Blaine’s shoulder before moving on. “Well, do you want to talk? Drink? Go out?” 

Blaine sighs, eyes still closed. He’s relishing the wave of warmth and comfort. “Drink, yes. Undecided on the rest?” He knows it’s dumb, how he can’t ever even voice his own opinions without seeking approval, or wanting to be sure he’s not forcing anyone else to do what he wants to do. Even now, when he knows Kurt well enough to know that if he doesn’t want to do something, not only would he not offer, but he’d never go along with it. It’s one of the things Blaine admires so much about Kurt -- how steady in his skin he is sometimes, how unapologetic and in charge of his flaws he is. Blaine has never felt anywhere close to being that comfortable with himself, opting most often to hide his true self in favor of whatever any situation calls for. 

“Okay.” Kurt says easily, reaching above his head for two shot glasses, then into his mini fridge for the gin. “Gin?” He shakes the bottle at Blaine, wrinkling his nose, “We have some tequila too, but it’s the cheap kind.” 

“Whatever,” Blaine waves his hand, just wanting to get to that place where he won’t care so much about everything. “You pick.” 

“Hm.” Blaine watches Kurt pour them each a shot and leave a can of Pepsi beside Blaine’s. “One of these days you’ll actually express a preference for something, I swear. I have ways of making people bend to my will.” 

“Oh, I don’t doubt it,” Blaine responds, admiring the way Kurt’s long fingers flourish in the air as he speaks. “Besides, you know I like Pepsi over Diet Coke; that’s a preference. Which, by the way, I appreciate you keeping around for me.” 

Kurt’s shrug is kittenish, his smile just a little flirtatious as he picks up his glass, touching it to Blaine’s lightly. 

“Here’s to a better weekend.” 

~*~ 

By the time they are three shots in, Blaine is draped across the floor, watching Kurt stumble around searching for something elusive. (A shirt? A shoe, maybe? He’d stopped listening.) 

“Kurt. Kurrrt. Kurr-- oh fuck.” Clumsily, he scoots onto his side, pawing at his back pocket, trying to extract his phone. “Oh fucking fuck, Ryan, why are you calling--” he cuts off when Kurt snatches the phone away. “Hey!” Blaine rolls over too fast, bumping into the small table housing their shot glasses and narrowly avoids being pelted by them. Kurt backs away laughing, Blaine’s phone in hand. 

“Come on, Kurt,” Blaine rolls onto his hands and knees, watching Kurt climb the ladder up his bed and shake his head. 

“No, no more Ryan tonight. I just spent two hours cheering your ass up after a phone call with him and you won’t even tell me why you need cheering-- Blaine, whoa! Careful, what ar-- Blaine!” Laughing, Kurt tries to roll away -- which is futile really, considering the size of his college issue twin mattress -- as Blaine stumbles up and onto the bed, attempting to tackle him. 

Thinking fast (well, faster than Blaine) Kurt tosses his phone in the direction of his chairs. It lands, thankfully, without breaking. “No, nonono,” Blaine says, Kurt grabs Blaine and pulls him back against him. “Blaine, come on, let it go to voicemail. Do you really want to answer, anyway?” 

“No.” Kurt winces as Blaine flops back and rolls on his back. Carefully, he lays back as well so they are, side by side. “But it’s not worth it if I don’t. I’ll hear about it for days.” 

For a moment, Kurt holds his breath. He’s drunk enough to want to give Blaine his unbiased opinion, but not so drunk that he doesn’t realize this might backfire -- especially since Blaine is finally opening up to him. 

“I’m so tired,” Blaine says. Kurt shifts, turning to look at Blaine as his friend’s voice cracks. Blaine’s hand shakes a little as it comes up to cover his eyes. “God, I have to go. I’m sorry.” 

“No, come on.” Kurt stops him and gently guides his shoulder back down. “You feeling sad?” Blaine snorts a little through his tears, laughing. 

“Sad. Yes, I’m sad.” Embarrassed, he sniffles and tries to turn away 

“Can I try something? My dad always used to do this when I was sad.” Seeing Blaine nod, Kurt carefully slips his hand into Blaine’s, lacing their fingers together and lying back so his head is against Blaine’s. For a few moments, they lie together quietly. Blaine’s still crying a little, squeezing Kurt’s hand tight in his. 

“Blaine, can you talk to me, please?” Kurt keeps his voice quiet. 

“I don’t know what to say,” Blaine responds dully, closing his eyes and trying to control his tears. He doesn’t know why he is so overwhelmed, but everything feels like a little too much, the way the room is spinning and the way his heart is clenching. 

“How about,” Kurt starts, trying to keep his voice low and soothing, “you don’t worry about saying the right thing, or trying to figure out what I want to hear, and just tell me what you are feeling?” 

“Overwhelmed.” Blaine speaks fast, without opening his eyes. He tries to focus on the slide of Kurt’s thumb, soothing over his knuckles, and the comforting give of the comforter and pillows surrounding him. 

“Overwhelmed by...?” Kurt prods. 

“Everything. Ryan. Feeling guilty.” 

“Why do you feel guilty, Blaine?” Kurt shifts imperceptibly closer, trying not to stiffen with surprise when Blaine does as well, moving so his head is against Kurt’s shoulder. 

“For being annoyed and angry and frustrated and done with this whole thing. I don’t want to do this anymore. For knowing that it’s wrong to expect Ryan to change, to ask him to change, but staying because he keeps promising he will. For feeling like I hate him and love him and who the hell feels like that?” 

“You do.” Kurt lifts his free hand and runs it through Blaine’s hair. “And that’s okay. Whatever you’re feeling, you are allowed to feel it. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

Frowning, Blaine nuzzles closer. 

“That’s not... I mean… that can’t… I can’t-” 

“Blaine.” Kurt untangles them, pulls away and looks into Blaine’s eyes. “When Ryan is angry, how do you feel?” 

“I don’t understand,” Blaine says. 

Kurt shakes his head, trying not to be irked by Blaine’s need to be willfully obtuse. “Let’s say your phone rings, and you answer, and Ryan is pissed. What’s your initial feeling?” 

Blaine rolls his eyes, fidgeting uncomfortably. He clears his throat and softly admits, “panic.” 

“And why do you feel panicked?” Kurt’s voice is just a little sharper, just a little more pointed. 

“I don’t know!” Blaine tries not to get annoyed or angry, tries not to let his growing discomfort seep through. 

“Blaine.” Kurt struggles not to smile. “Are you getting annoyed with me?” 

“What? No! No, I swear--” 

“Oh my god! Blaine, it’s okay! If you are annoyed with me, be annoyed.” 

“But I don’t want to make you mad.” Blaine bites his lip, feeling like he’s two steps from a complicated trap, desperately confused as to what the right answers are. 

“Look, I’m a big boy. If I get mad, I get mad. If I’m annoyed, oh well. I’ll tell you and we’ll hash it out and everything will be fine.” 

“But what if it isn’t? What if you decide you don’t want to be my friend anymore?” Blaine doesn’t look at him. In the silence, he waits for Kurt’s answer, then finally darts a look at his friend. “What? You look so sad, Kurt.” 

“I’m not going to stop being your friend if we have a disagreement or if I get annoyed with you. That’s not how friendship works. Blaine, who taught you these things?” 

“What are you talking about?” Nervous laughter filters out of him before he can stop himself. 

“Blaine.” Kurt’s voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. It feels like caring and acceptance, and Blaine has to close his eyes. He feels Kurt pull him in for a hug, rolling so that he’s pressed against Kurt’s long, toned limbs. 

They don’t speak for a long time, just lying together and breathing. When he thinks Kurt might be asleep, Blaine whispers. 

“He used to say he was going to, all the time. When we were first together. When I’d make mistakes. And I needed him so much, I was so alone.” Kurt’s arms tighten around him, but he doesn’t speak. Blaine’s mouth is starting to feel dry; he’s dizzy and off-balance from the gin and how comfortable he is, surrounded by Kurt’s scent and warmth. He can feel Kurt’s unasked question, taste his uncertainty in the air, but he’s unwilling to open that door. Not when he’s already unlocked so much he isn’t ready to think about on his own. Cautiously, he wraps one arm around Kurt’s waist, settling himself in more firmly, closes his eyes and lets himself be held.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: LOTS of underage drinking, and more internalized slut shaming.

The first month Ryan and Blaine dated had been eye-opening in the best sort of way. Blaine had had friends before, after coming out and transferring to Dalton, but never anyone close and never anyone that he’d felt comfortable letting in. Ryan had been different: attentive and sweet -- terribly sweet, really.

He’d gone out of his way to learn little things that Blaine liked. Often, he managed to make Blaine feel important and needed as well -- all things Blaine had been aching for. Weekends that he’d previously spent alone in his dorm room -- or, more often, alone at home -- were then spent in Ryan’s room or with Ryan’s family, who had welcomed him with open arms. 

Later, he thinks there were things that should have caught his attention -- actions that, with time and a different perspective, he can identify, although some will probably always elude him. He’d been so desperate to be loved, to be important to someone, that he’d given himself with alarming ease to a boy he barely knew. 

~*~ 

By the time Wednesday rolls around, Blaine is exhausted. Exams have been taking up all of his time (and a lot of his sleep) and have caused more than one argument with Ryan over the phone, the last of which had been a doozy. He’d stayed up two hours past when he’d wanted to go to bed, trying to explain, over and over, that he had to work over the weekend and he couldn’t just not go in because Ryan missed him. 

He’d been tempted but managed to hold back more than one pointed remark about his need to have a job anyway. Ryan, of course, is once again unemployed and in the process of moving back in with his parents. Blaine wants to yell at Ryan because it’s the 12th of the month and he knows, he _knows_ , that within two days he is going to get a panicked phone call about a cell phone bill or a credit card bill that needs payment that he’s inevitably going to end up paying. This is why Blaine has a job in the first place, which pisses him off immeasurably. Feeling powerless, feeling like he has no rights anymore, feeling sleep deprived -- it all just pisses him off. 

And he wants to say something. Anything. To tell Ryan to grow up and learn how to keep a job; to ask Ryan to pay him back. But he knows that anything he says will somehow get turned around. Blaine really has no idea how it happens, but when it does, he usually finds himself staring at his phone, confused all kinds of churned up. 

Which sort of explains why Wednesday night finds him giving up on his term paper for his Women In Lit class and harassing Kurt, Jeff, and Kevin into going out. As the school term winds down, campus has become decidedly more raucous, house parties spilling onto lawns, frat parties thumping loud into the night until the flash of police lights come round to shut them down. 

“I don’t care. I don’t care where we go or what we do, but none of us have any exams tomorrow and I am going to literally go _crazy_ if we do not go out, act our ages, and get all kinds of messed up right now.” Blaine stands in the doorway of Kurt and Kevin’s room, cajoling and basically annoying the crap out of his friends. He’s dragged his roommate with him; Jeff has made himself at home with a bag of chips and Kurt’s favored chair and is blithely ignoring darted glances from Kurt that clearly convey a willingness to inflict bodily harm should grease or crumbs find their way onto the upholstery. 

“Okay, first of all--” Kurt’s snarky tone does nothing but widen Blaine’s smile, so he pulls out his best bitch face before turning back to his computer, where he’s been diligently outlining notes for his last exam, which is coming up this Friday, “we need to talk about your future alcoholic tendencies.” 

A derisive snort is all he gets for that before continuing, “And, second of all, do you think in a million years I would let any of my fabulous boots anywhere near a frat party? The floors, Blaine,” Kurt hisses, “are absolutely filthy.” 

“Whatever, so we won’t go to a frat party. I don’t care where we go. We could sit on a garbage can if there was music and alcohol involved.” Seeing the look on Kurt’s face, Blaine barrels on, “No, I don’t think you’d do that and mess up your pristine Marc Jacobs jacket or whatever. Just, please, _please_ come on, let’s go have some fun.” 

“Oh my god, you are so annoying. And persistent. And persistently annoying.” Kurt flicks his computer closed before stalking over to his closet to start sorting through clothes. 

“Yes!” Blaine’s exclamation is quiet enough for Kurt not to hear, but loud enough to make Jeff laugh and fist bump him. 

“Well?” And, wow, it must say something about Blaine, how much he enjoys that bitchy tone Kurt uses on him. It feels like affection, or makes him feel affectionate; he isn’t really sure which. “Hello? Oh my god, earth to Blaine?” Kurt is snapping his fingers, one hand on his hip. “I need to know where we’re going so I can plan a suitably fabulous ensemble, so come on boys, what are we doing?” 

“Sarah and her roommates are having a house party. They usually keep them pretty under control,” Jeff mumbles around a mouth full of chips. “And you know, they’re chicks. I’m sure their floors are clean enough for your boots.” Ignoring the narrow glare Kurt is sending him, Jeff keeps munching his chips loudly, a habit that normally drives Blaine crazy. Right now, he couldn’t care less, bumping Kurt playfully toward his closet, where he starts pointing to items that could work. Together they build Kurt the perfect outfit, taking a small detour for Kurt to drape a scarf around Blaine’s neck. 

“It matches your eyes perfectly and brings out the colors in your shirt. You have to wear it.” 

Blaine fingers the cashmere reverently. “Kurt, we’re going to a party. With alcohol. That I plan on drinking a _lot_ of. I’ll ruin this, and I’m too young to die.” 

“Ugh, that’s true.” Kurt is busy arranging the scarf, fussing as he drapes it around Blaine. For a moment, Kurt’s face is so close Blaine can count his eyelashes. Blaine’s stomach tightens; Kurt looks up at his indrawn breath, and for a moment they just stare at each other until Blaine breaks away, guilty and a little shaken. 

“Hey, Blaine, are you sure you wanna go out? Isn’t Ryan gonna be pissed?” Jeff butts in, effectively breaking the tension between them and creating a whole new kind. 

“ _Jeff,_ ” Kurt’s admonition is quiet but firm. 

“Whatever. The way this week has gone, I’m not sure I can even breathe properly for him.” Blaine unwinds Kurt’s scarf and gives it to him. “Thanks though. Maybe I can wear it some other time.” 

Kurt tries to smile, handing the scarf back. “Keep it. It works better with your coloring anyway.” 

Gingerly, Blaine takes the scarf, smiling a little too wide. “Thanks. I’m gonna go put it in my room. I’ll come back and get you guys ok?” He leaves Jeff in Kurt’s care, tuning out Kurt’s hissed ‘what is the matter with you?’. Once safely out of their sight, he holds the scarf up to his face and inhales the spicy sweet smell of Kurt. Feeling equal parts creepy and some kind of really good, he smiles before opening the door to his room, stowing the scarf carefully to wear another day. 

~*~ 

Blaine isn’t drunk, not yet, but, for the first time all week, he is starting to feel good. The party is full but not out of control. Sarah’s apartment is comfortably packed, music just a little too loud. He is standing with Sarah and her boyfriend, shouting conversation about music, nursing a beer and determinedly ignoring his phone buzzing in his pocket. He’s lost Kurt and Jeff in the last hour, but it’s a small apartment and he isn’t worried. With a smile, he accepts a shot from Sarah, laughing as they all clink glasses. For a moment, he truly feels his age -- young and recklessly alive. 

Ten minutes later, Blaine is starting to get annoyed by the non-stop buzzing of his phone, so he excuses himself, pushing and stumbling his way out onto the balcony of the apartment. Nineteen missed calls and 14 text messages, all from Ryan. Without even looking, Blaine starts deleting the messages before sending one out. 

_I’m at a party. I just need a break. Please stop. I’ll call you later._

Swallowing the guilt, which settles like lead and needles in his stomach, he turns off his phone before Ryan can respond. Jeff and a girl he doesn’t recognize have come out onto the balcony, which is kind of uncomfortable because they’re making out, and _oh god, gross_ he really doesn’t need to see Jeff’s hands doing what they are doing any time soon. Blaine wants desperately to leave, only they’re blocking the doorway back into the living room. 

Embarrassed and trying to be quiet, he tries the door on the other side of the balcony. Thankfully, it’s open; Blaine stumbles into a darkened bedroom, and _oh, wow_ , there’s Kurt. On a bed. With some guy. Turning blindly toward the door, Blaine tries to be quiet and go unnoticed as he slips out, skin too hot and tight. Because even that quick glimpse, just the quickest flicker of Kurt half covered by a sheet, eyes closed and panting, rocking and moaning, is too much. It’s a picture that spirals through him, warming even his fingers and toes, and _fuck_ , he is not drunk enough for any of this. 

~*~ 

Two hours and a few shots later, Blaine is sitting slumped by a wall, just some wall, sort of involved in a game, although he really has no idea what the game is or what he’s supposed to do. The night has taken on a sort of blurry, liquid quality. He’s tired and drunk, content to float, touching down quickly from moment to moment. Mostly, he’s enjoying the feeling of being unencumbered and guilt-free. 

When he feels someone bump him roughly from the side, Blaine tilts and slides down the wall a bit, senses sharpening and focusing for a moment. Then he’s being hauled upright and turning to find Kurt next to him. Kurt, who is warm and smells intoxicating, hair beautifully messed, blue-gray eyes sleepy and sad. 

“Is that--“ Blaine looks blearily around, the crushing press of drunk bodies dizzying and bewildering, “the Mexican Hat Dance?” Next to him, Kurt laughs a little; Blaine looks down and sees that their hands and fingers are tangled. 

“Can we go, please?” Blaine has to lean close to hear Kurt, but he isn’t so drunk that he can’t hear the catch in Kurt’s voice. He nods, resisting the urge to lay his head on Kurt’s shoulder, to curl himself up against his friend and take some sort of comfort, give some sort of comfort in return. 

He lets Kurt haul him up, both of them unsteady, but Blaine almost dangerously so. 

“God, Blaine, how much did you drink?” Kurt is scanning the room, holding Blaine up with one arm. “And where the hell is Jeff?” 

“Wi’ a girl, kissin’, kiss kissin’ on the pooorch,” Blaine singsongs, swaying into and away from Kurt, watching with interest as several drunk boys without shirts dance, literally, around a hat. “Wow, it really is the hat dance, Kurt.” 

“Oh, no no no.” Kurt pulls him back toward the door. “You are not stripping and dancing around a hat. Come on.” He pushes a struggling Blaine toward the door and, once out, fishes his cell phone out of his pants. 

“How-- how d’ya fit that in there?” Blaine leans a bit, scanning Kurt’s tight pants in a way that is probably not polite. “They’re so tight.” 

“Okay, wow.” Kurt turns, slapping a hand against Blaine’s chest and holding him against the wall while he dials, eyebrows furrowing. He’s frowning, and then Blaine is, too, because Kurt is sad, and that makes him feel bad, but Kurt is talking on the phone and he’s so tired and _oh my god_ , he promised he’d call Ryan but he really, really does not want to talk to Ryan right now. Closing his eyes, he tilts his head back and lets Kurt hold him up until it is time to go. 

~*~ 

“Okay, we’re here. Key?” 

“Mmmm, walllll.” Blaine lays his overwarm face against the cool wall he’s been propped against, ignoring Kurt for the moment. He is so tired. 

“Blaine, come on, where’s your key?” Only now Kurt sounds impatient and maybe annoyed, which is not fun at all and makes Blaine feel less sleepy and more worried. 

“My pocket?” He really isn’t sure; a search for the key in one of his pockets is turning out to be futile, since he is having trouble finding his pockets. 

“Oh, for god’s sake.” Kurt bats his hands away, ignoring Blaine’s exclamation of distress, fishing roughly through his pockets until he finds the keyring in question. 

“Jeez, if you’re going to feel me up, take me to dinner first,” Blaine tries to joke, stumbling into Kurt as he tries to make his way through the now open door of his room. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Kurt says. Blaine grabs Kurt’s sleeve, shooting him an innocent smile. There is something about that tone, that dry and sarcastic bitchy tone, that he loves. It’s different from _really_ bitchy Kurt. This is one he uses on friends and people he’s close to, tiny glimpses of real Kurt, often hidden behind layer after layer of clothes and an impenetrable wall of _back off_ and _do not touch_. 

“Stay, stay for a bit.” Blaine is fumbling to get his shoes off but is distracted and starts pawing at the laces of Kurt’s boots, which are in front of his face. 

“No, no, Blaine... bad Blaine! Do _not_ touch the boots. I’ll get them off.” When Kurt’s head accidentally knocks into his, Blaine has a sudden insight. 

“You-- you’re drunk!” Swaying only a bit, his accusatory finger of righteous outrage is lost on Kurt, who is now sitting awkwardly, trying with little success to get his boots off. 

Kurt pauses to roll his eyes at Blaine.“Hi. Welcome to the room, Captain Obvious.” He returns to his boots, muttering and almost falling over; helpfully, this somehow manages to knock the door back and closed. 

“Here.” Blaine sits, or tries, almost knocking a knee into Kurt’s cheek. Together, they manage to get the boots off with minimal damage. 

“Thank god. What if they’d had to cut them off of me or something?” Kurt ponders, laying back on the floor. “Oh my god, my babies, no. I’d rather have been trapped in them forever than have that happen.” Still on his back, Kurt is gesticulating toward the ceiling. Feeling as though he is missing something important, Blaine lies down as well. Looking up, he sees nothing but the ceiling of his dorm room, faintly discolored and completely boring. 

“Ugh, Kurt, there’s nothing up there.” 

Kurt pauses mid rant to turn and look at his friend. “What are you talking about?” He looks almost comical, one eye shut and the other squinting at Blaine, hair riotously askew. Blaine tries not to start laughing, but doesn’t manage to cover his giggle fast enough. Both of Kurt’s eyes widen at the sound. “Oh my god, I look horrible, don’t I?” Kurt squeaks, then tried to sit up, brushing ineffectively at Blaine’s grabbing hands. 

“No, no, come on, you look adorable. Come back. The floor is sooooo comfy.” 

“ _Oh my god_ , you let me lie down on the floor. What is wrong with you?” Kurt wails, poking a vicious finger into Blaine’s side, which only makes him laugh more. Eventually, he rolls over and gets himself upright, somehow. He pulls Kurt away from the mirror on the back of his closet door, where he is muttering to himself and trying to arrange his hair. 

“Who are you trying to impress? Come on, let’s lie down or something, the spins, it’s spinning, Kurt, come on.” He is tugging harder, dragging Kurt over to his bed, where he manages (barely) to fling himself. Cracking an eye open, he sees Kurt, standing and biting a lip nervously. Blaine extends his hands, making a grabby _come here_ gesture. 

“Please, Kurt, please, I have a need for snuggles.” 

Kurt rolls his eyes. “God, you are such a child,” Kurt says, then climbs into bed next to him. Blaine sighs happily , draping himself over him, ignoring Kurt in favor of settling into him. “This is so not appropriate. Ryan will kill me or you if he finds out,” Kurt grumbles in vain, wrapping his arms around Blaine and shifting to get more comfortable. “I take it back. You aren’t a child; you’re a cuddle whore. Shameless, really.” 

“Mmmmhmmm, shameless,” Blaine mumbles. After a moment he rolls away, laying his head on a pillow instead of Kurt’s shoulder. “Do you think it’s bad?” 

Kurt rolls to look at Blaine, eyebrow managing to rise, despite the sleepy state of the rest of his face. “Wanting affection?” he asks lightly. 

“No.” Blaine closes his eyes. “Wanting to cuddle with someone else?” 

Kurt shrugs. “I don’t know. I’m not the person to ask about stuff like this, am I?” He sounds bitter and sad, which makes Blaine sad. Tentatively, he places a hand on Kurt’s arm. 

“Hey, what’s wrong?” He watches Kurt close his eyes, the way he moves back slightly at the touch of Blaine’s hand. The room tilts, and Blaine’s stomach twists a little. He takes a deep breath and focuses. He is so drunk. 

“Is this about that guy?” He feels a little reckless, but Kurt seems so broken, and Blaine really isn’t sure how to fix it. When Kurt actually does pull back and away from his hand, squeezing his eyes shut tight before opening them and staring at Blaine, he knows that is it. 

“How do you...?” Kurt’s voice is barely audible, but the tears standing at the corners of his eyes are plain as day, and Blaine barely manages to check the urge to pull him into a hug. 

“I-- you were in the room, I was on the porch ignoring Ryan, and Jeff was grabbing that girl’s ass and I had to run away because I did _not_ want to see that, and you were in the room.” Kurt’s indrawn breath cuts off his babbling. He rolls onto his back, hands over his face. 

“Kurt?” Hesitant, his hand hovers over Kurt’s, not quite finding the courage to touch. 

“I can’t believe you saw that. Oh my god, you must think I am such a slut.” Kurt’s voice is broken and raw, and Blaine aches, literally, to find some way to fix this. 

“Kurt, we’ve talked about this. It’s okay. Why do you care what I think anyway? Nothing you do is going to make me stop being your friend.” 

Waiting a bit, Blaine leans into the silence, watching his friend struggle to breathe. Eventually, Kurt moves his hands, his face still flushing red, tear-streaked. 

“I feel like shit, every time.” The whisper is cracked, raw emotions leaking through. 

Blaine tips his head onto the pillow next to him, taking Kurt’s hand tentatively. “If it makes you feel so bad, why do you do it?” 

Kurt shrugs, not grasping at Blaine’s hand but not pushing him away either. “I don’t know. It never seems like a bad idea at the time.” Their faces are so close he can see the fine texture of Kurt’s skin, which looks soft, tempting his fingertips to touch. Kurt studies the underside of Jeff’s bed above them, one hand ghosting up to trace at the coils of the bed springs. 

“What are you thinking, when it’s happening?” Blaine prompts carefully. 

“God, I don’t know!” Kurt’s fingers snap one of the springs. “That I’m horny, or lonely, or both, or god-- that maybe it’s just nice to have someone want me for a little while.” 

“But Kurt…” _Be careful_ , Blaine warns himself, “didn’t you tell me the other day that you want more? More than just a little while?” 

“So?” Kurt’s voice is defensive, and cold, but he is still listening, not rolling off the bed and storming away, which Blaine marks as a small victory. 

“What was that guys name? Did you get his number?” 

_Oh fuck_ , he thinks, backing away from Kurt. Being on the receiving end of one of those glares is way scarier than he had thought it would be. Sensing the tensing of Kurt’s muscles, he throws an arm out and over. “No, wait, no-- I didn’t mean it like that. I really want to know. Did you ask? Or did you assume he wouldn’t be interested in anything else?” 

“What do you mean?” Kurt turns away again, brushing Blaine’s arm off of him but not getting up. 

“I just… wonder sometimes… if you don’t think you are worth it or deserve more, so you settle for less and assume that the guys you hook up with are only after one thing and aren’t actually interested in you. And, Kurt...” Daring, he grabs Kurt’s chin lightly (and _oh god, his skin really is just that soft_ ), pulling his friend’s face around and staring into his eyes. In the dim light of the bunk, they are an in-between and intense gray. “They would be. Any guy would be lucky to have you.” 

They stare at each other for a long beat, Kurt finally breaking first, blinking and then sighing. “I didn’t give him my number when he asked.” 

Gentle-fingered, Kurt removes Blaine’s hand from his face before rolling onto his back again. Blaine tries to keep his face from showing any triumph over the admission. 

“I think I’m sobering up. It’s--” he sits up to reach his phone, squinting at the display, “much too early for that. Want another drink?” Blaine nods, feeling comfortable and lethargic and wanting to go along with the flow, even if he is still pretty drunk. He kind of really loves Kurt. As a friend, or something. A really beautiful friend who makes his fingers spark and his stomach knot. Who brings him shots in his own bed and smiles like the goddamn sunrise. Kurt wants to drink and Blaine likes the way he feels around Kurt when he’s drunk. Almost like himself. 

There is some part of him that knows it isn’t healthy, but it’s when he’s drunk that he most likes the way alcohol loosens him up. It is so fucking hard to be _on_ all the time. To be polite and well spoken and still worry all the time, all the _fucking_ time thinking and wondering and scrabbling at hints and clues and testing the atmosphere for displaced emotions. Always feeling like the weight of the world is his to shoulder alone. When he’s drunk, he cares a whole lot less, and lets himself feel, finally, a whole lot more. 

Every insecurity and the dearth of affection, his insatiable need to be liked and loved and wanted and important: things he won’t let himself feel or acknowledge when sober, things that drive every urge to fix and pacify -- they all come out to play when he’s drunk. In the morning, he’ll regret it. He always does. He’ll flush, feeling dumb and like a child, replaying every clinging gesture, the need that pulses and thrums under his skin. Mornings after a drunk like that hurt in the worst kind of way, because he opens his eyes only to see so clearly the deep chasm inside, the _wantwantwant_ that needs filling. 

But he can never trust that anyone would. And he knows, oh, he knows by now the way he makes it so much worse. He’s been digging the hole deeper, ripping himself up and hollowing himself and trying to be anything for Ryan in order to be something, even the littlest bit of thing, for somebody. 

It’s a truth that hurts too much to bear knowing, so in the wake of each hangover, he rolls out of bed and shuts his mind’s eye. He showers and gels his hair the way Ryan likes, he calls his boyfriend, and sometimes, sometimes, the way Ryan says “Hey, babe,” makes him feel just a little warm. It’s all he’s come to expect that he deserves, and so he takes it. 

~*~ 

It isn’t surprising really, to find himself really, really drunk an hour later. It’s the kind of drunk Blaine rarely ever gets to because when in it he is a mess of emotions, a rioting ball of insecurities with almost no personal boundaries and too grabby hands. 

“What’d y’mean?” he asks suddenly. They are side by side on the floor of his room, head to toe, squashed between the futon and Blaine’s desk. Blaine has been trying to explain the lyrics of the Cursive album to Kurt, who is reluctantly listening and making snarky comments that make Blaine want to laugh and cry. 

“What?” Next to his leg, Kurt’s body shifts, probably so Kurt can raise his head to look at him, and he’d look back, really, but Blaine is not entirely sure he can move his body. Like, at all. 

“The horny part.” Blushing, Blaine turns his head away, as if Kurt actually can see him, much less the blush. 

“ _What. Are. You. Talking. About?_ ” Kurt’s voice is careful and slow. Blaine rolls to his side, then tries to sit up, but manages to somehow tangle his leg with Kurt’s arm, which elicits a lot of swearing. Eventually, with Kurt’s help, he sits, leaning heavily against his desk, legs akimbo and bent in the small space between himself and Kurt’s still prone body. 

“When… you said… the guy.” Blaine gestures toward the room, as if expecting the furniture to supply more information. “You do it, it-- cause you-- you’re lonely and horny and…” his voice trails off. 

Kurt shifts, bumping against Blaine’s knees, eyes glassy and voice slurred. “I’m so confused.” 

Blaine just smiles sweetly. “What’s it feel like? I’ve forgotten what it feels like,” he answers finally, surprising Kurt, whose face does something that is almost recognizable, but not quite. 

“What’s what like?” Kurt clarifies. 

Blaine starts to answer, then groans, feeling the contents of his stomach settle heavy and thick inside. “When you want it, want someone like that?” Some part of his brain, the part that probably operates the brain to mouth filter, is horrified by this, but there is some sort of lag between thought and the things coming out of his mouth. There is also some other part of himself that _wants_ to talk to someone about this. To share the burden of self-loathing and the feeling of dirt and shame that paints him, inside and out. To see if there is anyone else who understands _that_ feeling. 

“Blaine.” Kurt shifts, pushing Blaine’s legs away a bit and sitting up to face his friend. “What do you mean by that?” Kurt is looking at him curiously, and Blaine feels his stomach lurching, skin suddenly too tight. The words, the truth of what he wants to say, sit on his chest, heavy and thick and stinging. 

“I... I just-- have--” Overwhelmed, Blaine shuts his eyes and tries to breathe, feeling panicked and out of control and so, so, drunk. Kurt’s hand is on his, cool and steady, and he just breathes in, then out, and lets it drain away, lets the emotions and the fear and the self loathing seep out of him, focusing on the music and Kurt’s fingers. 

“Mmm, Kurt. Listen to this song.” He finally opens his eyes, which are dry and sticky, and everything is a little blurry and out of focus. 

“Bl--” 

“Shh, please, just listen to this one,” cutting Kurt off, Blaine shakes his head, closing his eyes again, letting the angry words wash over him, feeling the violence of the clashing instruments, pounding and competing until they give over to something softer, the cello coming in, Tim Casher’s voice coming in quieter and stronger somehow. His fingers tighten on Kurt’s, tears in his eyes making his throat thick and sticky. 

“What is it?” Kurt’s question breaks into his trance, the shoulder against his so warm, so warm and real and present. Present and there for him, if he needs it, which just cracks him. Turning to bury his face against Kurt, Blaine lets the tears leak out, swallowing down his rising stomach, breath heaving unsteadily. 

“Blaine?” Kurt’s hand is tender against his hair, petting and calming and centering something bright and too hot in the middle of Blaine’s chest, where all the words live, where all the memories burn against his stubbornly beating heart. “Which of those words were the important ones?” 

“ _Whoever told you love was fleeting/sometimes men can be so misleading/to get what they want from you_ ,” the words come out more subdued than he intends, his half-sung inflection wavering toward the end. Kurt’s arm around his waist tightens, and, before Kurt can begin to answer, Blaine is lurching to his feet, throwing up into Jeff’s garbage can, tears and snot smearing across his face. He throws up again and then just cries, sobbing until he feels something cold wiping his face.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: after effects of massive amounts of alcohol consumption. Discussion of off screen non-con.

The first thing Blaine thinks when he wakes up is _oh, shit_.

The second is _gonna throw up_. 

Prying open his eyes while rolling gracelessly off of his bed, Blaine stumbles toward the bathroom, falling in front of the toilet, thankful he’s made it. 

A moment later, eyes screwed shut against the bright fluorescent lights, he’s rinsing his mouth and avoiding any thoughts beyond immediate need. _Need water. Head hurts_. 

“Advil?” Kurt’s voice at his elbow is muted, and Blaine can’t do more than nod. The light filtering through the open door into his room is bright, too bright for it to be earlier than noon, and when this thought filters through, panic swamps him, greasy and thick. 

“Phone?” He turns, spilling the Advil Kurt had dropped in his palm, shuffling past Kurt and bouncing off the door frame, “ _Ohmygod_ he’s going to be so mad. Phone, phone, Kurt, where is my phone?” Fingers trembling, he’s pawing at the contents of his desk. He’s nauseated and shaky, frantic and just shy of actually yelling at Kurt, who is standing still and staring. Staring and unmoving and looking torn or upset or puzzled, like Blaine is some sort of side show, and _shit_ he really, really has to find his phone before Ryan shows up at his door. 

“Blaine, you need to lie down,” Kurt’s voice is matter-of-fact and much too calm, and Blaine sways dangerously when he turns, biting back angry words, which is hard, so much harder than usual because he’s down and weak and everything is sort of spinning through the massive pounding in his head. 

Trying to reel in the dry heaving and fear, he whispers, “Kurt, I need my phone. Please. Please, I need to call Ryan, or I swear he’s going to show up here yelling, and I am so hungover, please do not make me deal with that.” 

“Blaine, I already talked to him. Last night, remember?” Kurt, shifting and wavering, leads him to his bed again, cool fingers wrapped around his bicep, and everything is sort of watery . His eyes close, and he gags and tries to hold it back. 

“Here.” Kurt shakes a garbage can at Blaine as he whimpers and settles back in bed, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes. “If you need to throw up, do it in here. I am going to get you some Gatorade and more Advil, then some food.” Kurt’s voice is threadbare with exhaustion, but Blaine does no more than nod, trying not to think too much about the food portion of that promise. 

~*~ 

After several hours spent in bed, sleeping or being prodded awake by Kurt, then Jeff, forced to drink Gatorade (yellow Gatorade, too, which seems cruel but is apparently all they have), and eat greasy food (which had been a feat of mind over matter, but Blaine knows as well as Jeff does that greasy food makes him feel better when hungover more than anything else), Blaine finally feels well enough to peel himself upright. 

After a shower that is both torturous and the ultimate pleasure, he finds himself in his closet, searching for the most comfortable clothes he is willing to be seen wearing in public. Well, with Kurt. Kurt’s eye for clothing and sharp tongue often leave him second guessing when it comes to dressing himself. 

He’s not sure what he’s settled for in the end, but as he turns to close the closet door, his eyes pass over, then catch sight of, the green scarf. It won’t go with what he’s wearing, not at all, but he can’t resist, pulling it off the hanger and holding it close to his face, breathing deep and expanding into his skin, feeling more grounded and real and present than he has all day. 

The smallest blessing of a hangover such as this is that often, most often for him, it comes with the gift of temporary amnesia. It isn’t often that he gets blackout drunk, and, in most cases, he usually remembers everything by the end of the day. It’s closing on 5 in the evening, and the night is still mostly a blur. Notable exceptions include the memory of some good-looking boys playing some sort of stripping game that involved the Mexican hat dance, and cuddling with Kurt in his bed. The first makes him smile, the latter weak and fluttery and guilty. 

Choosing to ignore all of this, he steels himself, knocking cautiously at Kurt’s door. When Kurt answers, it’s with an annoyed light in his eyes and hair that is both flattened and standing out in an incredible sort of way. He seems completely exhausted. 

“You look better,” Kurt says. Blaine stands in the doorway, taking in Kurt’s faded yoga pants and long Henley t-shirt, the most casual and least layered outfit he has ever seen him in. It is a trial and a feat to control the muscles of his face and fingers and stomach, all of which want to split apart and tremblingly betray him. 

“I-- I wanted to thank you. For taking care of me last night, and this morning. I know you had quite a bit to drink as well and must have been tired and hungover. Thank you.” He waits, watching Kurt, whose face and body are unmoving and somehow emanating annoyance and acceptance. When Kurt sighs, Blaine feels his arms and legs start to relax, just a bit. Waving him in, Kurt turns from the door. His room is dark and cooler than Blaine’s, smelling fresh and clean and comforting. Kurt is gathering clothing and mumbling about hunger. 

“I’m going to get dressed.” He’s gesturing redundantly toward the bathroom. “Do you want to order some Chinese or something? I’m starving.” 

It’s all he can do, really, not to stare as Kurt turns without waiting for his answer. Not to take in the way Kurt’s body seems so comfortable in the space around it, the easy grace of his long legs and how strong and fluid he always seems -- even more, really, with fewer clothes on, which is definitely not a line of thought he needs to be exploring. He clears his throat before pulling open the desk drawer he knows contains Kurt’s carry out menus. 

~*~ 

“Did you get dumplings?” Kurt’s voice is almost lost in the crinkling of the brown paper bag he is digging through, and Blaine is necessarily distracted by his struggle to open a carton of what he thinks should be Sesame Chicken. 

“Mmm, um-- yeah. I think it’s in the second bag-- shit.” Quickly, he sucks sauce off of his finger, which is barely burned, checking to be sure he didn’t spill sauce on himself or, god forbid, Kurt’s furniture. 

Soon enough, they are both settled, food in hand. Blaine picks thoughtfully through his choices, feeling like he should be talking, but not really knowing what there is to say. He doesn’t particularly want to know what happened last night, so he’s not going to ask. Instead, he settles on his fallback: impeccable manners and deflection. 

“I wanted to thank you again-- for being there, for being such a good friend. How are you feeling today?” He’s busy splitting a steaming egg roll with his fingers, trying to avoid burns, which means he misses the look Kurt gives him. Unfortunately, his ears are in perfect working order, so they easily pick up the frustrated noise Kurt makes. 

“Blaine,” Kurt bites off the end of his name in a sharp way that automatically has Blaine’s senses at high alert. Kurt is upset about something. He puts down his chopsticks and turns to look at Kurt. 

“Kurt,” he says. His is the spoken antithesis to Kurt’s tone. A gentle statement, an opening with an apology implied, an early _I’m sorry, just in case I messed up again_. He watches Kurt, who is worrying his lip and frowning at his plate, twirling a chopstick absently. The sigh that precedes him setting down his plate on the floor is soft and resigned. 

“Blaine, I need to talk to you about last night, but I can’t do it if you are going to do this.” Kurt waves in his direction, which does nothing to clarify the meaning of his sentence; Blaine’s frown is clue enough to that effect. 

“I’m not sure I know what you are talking about. What am I doing?” 

“Blaine, don’t do that. Don’t pacify me when I’m not even upset or angry. I hear you use that tone on Ryan all the time. I’m not angry.” Kurt’s face is beautifully open and his hands are on his crossed knees. “I’m not upset, and, even if I was, it wouldn’t be your job to fix it or talk me down.” 

Feeling jumpy and put in the spotlight and really very unsure of his moves, Blaine looks down, then up at Kurt, eyebrows a question. He doesn’t have an answer or response, because he doesn’t know how to quell the rolling in his stomach. It’s an instinct, a basic need, the need to reach out and fix, to settle the atmosphere of any room and smooth out all the wrinkles. 

They stare at each other in turn, until finally Kurt speaks. “Blaine, I’m your friend. You don’t have to work so hard. I need you to trust me that I am here because I like you and I want to be your friend and you aren’t going to break that. Not easily. Not if you get mad, or do something dumb. Not if you offend me or wear white after Labor Day.” They both smile a bit at the joke, and Blaine starts to speak, tasting the faltering tension in the room. 

“I know… here.” He taps his head. “I just… have to work on understanding it… here.” Lamely, he taps his heart, which is beating rabbit-fast and light against his ribs. 

“Did you know,” Kurt’s tone has turned conversational. When he bends to pick his plate back up off the floor, his shirt rides up, exposing a strip of skin at the back. Blaine looks away, swallowing reflexively against the sudden dryness in his mouth, “that you do this thing… it’s like a mask.” Kurt is picking through his food with grace, chopsticks navigating as an extension of his hand. His limber fingers and the beautiful arch of his wrist gleam tempting in the darkening room. 

“A mask,” Blaine repeats dumbly as he tries to listen, tearing his eyes away from the pale, smooth line of Kurt’s forearm exposed by the pushed up sleeves of his shirt. 

“A mask.” Kurt chews, eyeing him. “You get so proper-- all apologies and thank you, and it’s so formal, and it’s just a way for you to distance yourself. A way to be what you think people want.” Kurt’s eyes are on his now, serious and glowing. “A way to hide who you really are.” His head tilts to the side, eyes still raking over Blaine, assessing and weighing. 

“Sometimes, I think you trust me, and you let me see you. See pieces, here and there, and I’m still working on stitching them together. But other times -- like now--” Kurt’s hand waves in the air between them, miming the rising of a wall, and Blaine nods because he understands, and it’s like Kurt has stripped him and doused him in ice cold water. He wants to be, in a way. Stripped and exposed and maybe, _maybe_ , accepted. But it’s all wrong; this is all wrong, and it doesn’t feel right. 

Because when people inevitably leave him, ignore him, or forget that he has simple needs, like love and acceptance, this distance is the only thing that protects him. Blaine the construct, the polite boy who dresses nicely and always has the right answer, he is a façade that can bear the brunt of loneliness so much better. He’s a boy built to withstand disappointment because he’s been created to do so. He never expects, never really desires, and when he’s let down, it’s only a matter of course. 

Underneath that boy, underneath that false front, the real boy is nothing more than that. A boy. A trembling mess of a boy who just wants someone to see him. Who has always wanted someone to see him. 

And Kurt does. 

It’s a lot more frightening than he thought it would be, because now there is so much more to lose. 

This boy… he’s been taught not to expect, not to wish, and not to want. He’s too tender-soft to withstand rejection and disappointment. He wants too much, too badly, and is far too fragile. 

He thinks of what he said to Kurt, about his head and his heart. Blaine wonders what it will take, to get them on the same page, because his instinct is telling him to leave. To put up a wall, a wall of _okay_ , and _I’m fine_ , and _Kurt, what are you talking about?_ But his head - his head understands that Kurt can be trusted, that maybe this is okay. Maybe it is okay to let someone in, to let someone see you at your weakest and most vulnerable. 

“Okay.” Blaine shifts food around his plate, not very hungry but unwilling to let go of the safety of the prop. It gives him something to do, something to focus on other than his face, which wants to betray every emotion. 

“Okay?” Kurt leans toward him a bit. 

Blaine nods, smiling a little before tucking his head back down. He’s not sure he can do this, have this conversation, and look at Kurt, because it is overwhelming. _Really_ fucking overwhelming. 

“Blaine, last night… you said some things that… worried me.” Oh, and he can tell, he can tell by the cautious tilt of Kurt’s tone, by the carefully placed words, that he’s really made a mess of something. Focusing, he tries to remember what he could have said, but the night is still mostly a blanked-out slate, blurred in spots and mostly dark in others. 

“Kurt, I... I don’t really remember last night.” Blaine feels embarrassed admitting this, although he isn’t sure why. He’s seen Kurt plenty drunk before, seen him stumble out of bathrooms with kiss-bitten lips and skewed buttons. It’s college; they drink. The next morning isn’t always pretty, but he’s never felt like this about it. Like there is something layered in the memories repressed, something he won’t want to acknowledge when Kurt speaks it. 

“You asked me what it’s like… to want it.” Kurt’s face is turning more and more red, chopsticks in a vise-grip hand, but for long seconds Blaine just stares, trying to make some sort of meaning out of Kurt’s words. When he does, when he manages to connect the words to a distant memory, slippery and silvery, twisting at the reaches of his inner eye, he pales. 

Carefully setting his uneaten food aside, Blaine leans over, face in his hands, breathing. Just breathing, trying to focus on the sound of it. Air, sweet and necessary, rushing in and the way it hollows inside him, rushing back out in a long, smooth exhale that he drags out, emptying his lungs. He counts the seconds it takes to breathe out and then exhale, focusing on this only, the spaces inside his body, functioning on a basic level he cannot begin to comprehend. It’s incredible, what the body alone can get you through. The way you can come out on the other side of the worst possible, still breathing, still with a beating heart pounding against ribs unbroken, a body ready to keep going and going and going, regardless of how broken the spirit inside may be. 

“Blaine,” Kurt says. He can hear Kurt moving, the clink of his plate being set on the floor. Can feel the warmth emanating from his body as it kneels down, Kurt’s side pressed against the outside of his leg. Kurt’s hand is on his forearm. 

“You know I’ve never said anything about you and Ryan other than that I am here for you to talk to. I see the way you tense up when Jeff starts on you -- I can tell that it stresses you out, feeling stuck between people you care about. And I promised myself I would never put you in that position. But, Blaine, I thought you were just unhappy. I need you to tell me what you were talking about, and I really need you to be honest, because now I’m really scared that I’ve been a terrible friend to you all along and that I didn’t see something I should have.” The trembling in Kurt’s voice cuts right through him, through his shame and fear, bouncing off of him almost audibly and Blaine has to swallow hard through the thickening of fear in his throat. 

“No, Kurt, it’s okay. I promise,” Blaine says. The words seem hollow even to him, and he winces into his palms, trying to talk himself into doing a better job. 

“No, no, Blaine, please.” Kurt’s hand tugging on his arm is insistent, and Blaine finally has to look up, moving back a bit when he realizes how close their faces are. “Don’t do that, please.” Kurt is begging, sounding lost and young, which scares Blaine even more than the truth he’s hiding. “Don’t pretend that everything is okay when I can tell that it isn’t.” 

Blaine runs a hand through his hair. He tries to think of his options. Running away, but Kurt would probably follow him. Making up a story might work, but he doesn’t _want_ to lie anymore. Not to Kurt, and shrugging off Kurt’s concern is obviously not working for him. 

“Can… can you sit? I feel weird with you kneeling at my feet.” Blaine tries to soften the request -- the way Kurt flinches a little winds ribbons of guilt through and inside him. But he can’t, he just cannot have this conversation with Kurt so close, so close and touching him. 

He watches Kurt move back, the way he arranges himself, perfect posture with his legs crossed in a way that normally makes him smile because it is just so quintessentially _Kurt_. 

“What you said last night, the way you said it… the thing with the lyrics of that song...” Kurt’s voice is contemplative, but also gentle. Blaine closes his eyes, feeling the questions in Kurt’s voice, anticipating what is coming as the silence lengthens. “Blaine, has Ryan… I mean… has he ever made you have sex with him when you don’t want to?” It is hard, harder than either had expected -- for Kurt to say the words and for Blaine to hear them, so naked in their meaning. He is shaking his head before Kurt is even done, though. 

“No, he’s never, like, forced me or-- I mean… it’s not like I’ve ever tried to fight him off or anything,” he says, some strange forced laugh coming out. It’s a nervous gesture, really. Blaine hates this, hates this feeling like his face is out of control, like his emotions are naked and bared and his body takes over. It’s so strange, it makes him feel alien in his body, because the last thing he wants to do now is laugh or smile, but everything is so dizzyingly close to the surface and this is beyond a mask. This is beyond his fear of letting anyone in. 

Kurt is watching him, though, watching him with those cool eyes and Blaine’s eyes have to break away, flitting around the room, not landing on anything long enough to take anything in. Kurt’s implication, a word he has never let himself think, whispers along the edges of his mind. _Rape_. It’s a huge word; it’s huge and ugly, and Blaine will never, ever believe that anything that has happened between him and Ryan is close to that. Ryan is many things, but not capable of that. 

Stuttering and blushing, he tells Kurt so, but Kurt is frowning, and Blaine has cause to know not only how smart Kurt is, but how determined as well. Every word is the truth, but Blaine knows that doesn’t negate the fact that he did ask Kurt those questions. That he has felt sordid and used and filthy at Ryan’s hands. The secrets shared between himself and Ryan in the moments when Blaine has given up, stopped trying to fight what wasn’t worth fighting for in the first place -- they smolder inside him, white hot with shame and disgust for himself. He can’t stand to think that Kurt will uncover those, but he knows now that Kurt isn’t giving up. 

“Blaine, I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions, okay?” 

Seeing no way out, and maybe not wanting a way out, Blaine nods. 

“Have you ever said no to Ryan when he is wanting to or trying to initiate sex?” Kurt’s question is clinical, it’s practiced, and that makes it somehow easier to answer. Blaine nods, not looking at Kurt. He examines the lines of Kurt’s bed, the way the colors coordinate, thinks about how soft Kurt’s sheets are. 

“When you did, did he listen?” 

Frowning, Blaine starts to answer, then stops. “That’s not--” he starts, but Kurt interrupts. 

“Yes or no, Blaine.” _But that isn’t fair_ , Blaine thinks. _It’s more complicated than that_. 

“No,” he says at last, turning to stare at Kurt. “Please let me explain.” 

“Explain what?”Kurt’s voice is rising, becoming shrill, and his hands coming off of the arms of the chair are agitated. 

“It’s not like you’re implying, really. It’s not like I fought him, or even tried to. Yes, I said no,” _One time in particular_ , he thinks, _over and over_. “But I never fought. And I could have. Please don’t make this out to be,” he tries but can’t bring himself to say the word they are dancing around, “something it isn’t. I just- we have problems, and I have problems, and, I guess...” Blaine is shrugging and looking away again. “Sex just… I guess it’s just not for me. Our relationship has lots of problems but he loves me, really, Kurt, and he would never hurt me on purpose, not the way you mean.” 

It’s so still in the wake of his speech, Blaine is almost afraid to look at Kurt. When he does, Kurt literally takes his breath away; the depth of anger on his face is stunning. 

Something must run over his face, because Kurt reacts immediately, jumping and coming over to him, grabbing his hand, hard. “I’m not mad at you, I promise.” 

Blaine swallows down the inherent fear, nodding. He must look such a fool to Kurt, so weak; his need for constant reassurance is pathetic really. “Kurt, can we just…not talk about this anymore?” he pleads hesitantly while squeezing back, his fingers almost numb from the strength of Kurt’s grip. 

But Kurt is shaking his head, lost in thought. When he looks at Blaine, it’s level, but the look in his eyes -- Kurt looks distraught and lost. When he reaches up, Blaine starts to jerk back, until he feels Kurt’s fingers on his cheek. He didn’t even realize he’s been crying. 

“How did this happen, Blaine? How can you make excuses for him?” 

“Because...” and, _oh_ , he feels like a child, voice quavering, and _he can’t_ but Kurt must know, must understand something, because he’s reeling Blaine in, pressing Blaine’s face into his neck, hands running soothing and slow up and down his back. “I was so inexperienced when we met, and I wasn’t ready for a lot of stuff, but I was so scared that he would leave, and once I did it, I couldn’t take it back.” Sniffling, he inhales, taking in as much comfort as he can from Kurt’s scent. 

“What do you mean, you couldn’t take it back?” 

Blaine leans away, fingers picking at the hem of his jeans. “Well, once you have sex with someone, it’s not like you can back out later and say you don’t want to anymore, right? And it wasn’t a big deal, really,” he says, eyes wide, sincerity thick in the words. “But then there was one night...” Closing his eyes, Blaine reminds himself to breathe. Maybe if he explains it all, gives Kurt the whole story, he’ll understand. Maybe it will feel better to get it out, to cut the words out of his skin and put them into the universe. 

“Ryan was drunk and I just… I didn’t want to be with him like that. It felt wrong, and it wasn’t him, and I tried to say no, but he kept… he just has this way of talking to me, and I get so turned around. He has an answer for everything, a way around every excuse. I really didn’t want to, but he kept pressing, and then it was happening and I didn’t… I couldn’t… I mean, he’s my boyfriend, it’s not like I could fight him off, I’d already had sex with him before, right?” 

“Blaine, I really need you to hear what I am going to say, okay? When you say no, it means no. I don’t care if you didn’t fight back. He should have listened.” Kurt is kneeling at his feet, hands on Blaine’s knees now and he’s so earnest and somehow, young. 

“Come on.” He stands, pulling Kurt with him. “That can’t be comfortable. Let’s put your food away and do something. Go for a walk, watch a movie.” He tries to cover the way he is jittering, feeling itchy and too exposed. Kurt must sense that he really isn’t ready to talk anymore, at least not then. Kurt shakes out his legs, then runs a finger over his bangs, carefully feeling their placement. 

“I’m not suitably put together for a walk. Let’s watch a movie. I’ll pick something, because you have questionable taste.” He quirks an eyebrow at Blaine’s outfit and turns to pack away the food, placing leftovers in his mini fridge. Studying his outfit, Blaine tries to pinpoint where he’s gone wrong. 

Still turned away, rearranging the items in the small space, Kurt speaks. “The shirt and the shoes Blaine. The shoes are a never; the shirt is just unfortunate when paired with them.” Laughing, Blaine nudges Kurt with one of his offending shoes, ignoring Kurt’s protest as he tips over. He crawls into Kurt’s bed. 

“Too tired to sit in the chairs. Can we watch from here?” Aiming for light and playful, Blaine hopes Kurt will agree. He feels sore, tenderized by the night’s revelations. Insecure after having exposed so much to Kurt, let him so deeply in. 

“Blaine.” Kurt’s sigh is guilty and sad. He knows, without asking, what Kurt is trying to say. 

“Please, Kurt? It’s just… I can’t feel alone right now. Please? Friends do this, right?” Working to ignore the subtext vibrating and filling the spaces between them with tension, Blaine shifts, waiting for Kurt to decide. Finally, Kurt stands and, after setting up the movie, comes and crawls carefully over Blaine, who lies still as Kurt arranges some pillows, then lifts his head when Kurt nudges it with his arm. With a sigh, he sinks back against Kurt, who tentatively puts his arm around him, hand coming to rest flat on his stomach. 

Not wanting to press his luck, Blaine just lies, still and absorbing. Eventually, he feels Kurt relaxing, leaning in and tightening his hold until they are pressed together. For long minutes he watches the TV screen blindly. The weight of the night, of the words and what Kurt said, begin to lie over him, smothering and too bright. 

And Kurt must feel it, the fine tremor just under his skin. Even if he can’t see the tears, slow-coursing and quiet, he can feel it in the vibrations of Blaine’s skin. He doesn’t speak -- neither of them do; instead, they lie in silence. Kurt’s arm is strong around him, a band tethering him to something good. Something warm. A safe place, because right now Kurt is the only safe haven he has. 

~*~ 

He falls asleep at some point, face still wet with tears. When he wakes up, it is dark. Someone has covered them both with a blanket; they are still wrapped together, fingers tangled next to his heart which is staccato-beating, both panicked and pleased. Blaine wants so much to just lie there, to fall back asleep and wake in the morning. To wake and smell Kurt’s bed on his clothes. To feel Kurt behind him, long limbs brushing against him. 

It’s dark, so dark, in the room, which feels like anonymity. No one knows him, in this moment. No one needs to know that, right now, the only thing on earth he wants is the boy behind him. And not as a friend. Because Blaine wants to turn, to run his fingers all over Kurt’s skin, to feel the nuances of texture and strength in his bones and skin. To kiss each hollow of Kurt’s body, sampling each way in which Kurt’s smell winds through him. It’s dark and in it he know he’s never loved anything the way he loves Kurt Hummel. 

~*~ 

When morning comes, he’s alone, for which he is thankful. He’s not sure he can handle seeing Kurt right now -- not still reeling from the night before, the truths he revealed, the outpouring of love that had struck him dumb and senseless in the middle of the night. The way he’d lain awake, aching and confused, turned on and frightened because he’d never felt anything close to that level of wanting and intensity for his boyfriend. His boyfriend, who is waiting for a phone call, who he has deliberately chosen not to speak to for almost two days. 

_His boyfriend._

The thought is sobering. He slips out of Kurt and Kevin’s room quietly, Kevin still asleep in his bed, Kurt nowhere to be found. When he opens his door, Jeff is at his laptop, hair in all directions, looking like he hasn’t slept, and, for a minute, Blaine wants to turn back around and just run. Because he can’t talk, he can’t feel, he can’t fucking interact with another person and be expected to resemble anything close to a human being. 

They’ve never been particularly close, Jeff and he, although Blaine does count him as a friend. So it is surprising and gratifying when Jeff looks up and sees him --Blaine can tell that Jeff is really _seeing_ ; his expression softens, and he regards Blaine for a minute. 

“You need sleep, or do you want me to clear out for a bit?” he asks. Shaking his head, Blaine grabs his iPod and crawls into his bed, pulling his blankets over him. He must look awful, he knows, but he can’t even bring himself to care. The smell of Kurt is clinging to his clothes. Blaine pulls the comforter over his head, creating a small cocoon redolent of this one small lingering pleasure. Blaine turns on his iPod and closes his eyes. He’ll think about this later.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: light reference to off screen non-con

When Kurt comes back to his room, coffee in hand, it’s a disappointment and a relief to find Blaine gone. Kevin is awake, shuffling back from the bathroom. He’d come in late from study group, stayed up later working on his laptop -- Kurt guesses that together they’ve probably only averaged about 4 hours of sleep. Taking Blaine’s absence in stride, Kurt holds out the extra coffee in his hand. Grateful, Kevin mumbles a barely coherent thank you.

It is nearing on 10 a.m. and Kurt has a final in a few hours, for which he really should review. Booting up his laptop, he plugs in his earphones and opens his notes. When he opens his iTunes, though, a pop-up box asks if he wants to import songs - which makes sense because Blaine’s Cursive CD is still in his drive. Kurt has tried, both with and without Blaine, to listen to this CD, but he really, _really_ doesn’t get it. 

Kurt hovers the mouse over the play button, thinking about the night before and the way Blaine had broken down. Guilt and fear and sickness wash over him, layering themselves over and into Kurt until it is hard to breathe, hard to think. He presses play, eyes closed and breath skipping, fingers trembling. 

The guilt, the guilt is the worst in all of this mess, because he’s known, he’s _known_ that Blaine is unhappy. Kurt doesn’t like Ryan much, doesn’t appreciate the subtle ways in which he manipulates Blaine’s need to please, to be loved and cared for. But he sensed early on that Blaine needed a friend -- someone to listen, who wouldn’t pressure him or make him feel like he had to choose a side. 

Kurt had thought that, by waiting, he’d been doing the right thing. 

Feeling sick, Kurt lays his head on his folded arms, discordant music thrumming in his ears, churning like his stomach; it isn't just guilt. It is anger, so much anger, and a tremendous amount of despair, because Blaine really believes what he told Kurt; that much had been obvious. That Blaine absolved Ryan of his actions, that he really thinks that “no” was not enough -- the fact alone that Blaine doesn’t seem to feel like he has ownership or rights over his own body makes Kurt want to hit something. Who taught him that? 

Yes, Kurt is looser with his body than even he likes, and he’s somehow fallen into a habit of giving parts of himself away that he later regrets. But every decision is _his_ , and he knows that. In each moment, he wants the things he does, gives what he can and takes what he feels he needs. He’s never, not _ever_ , felt like he couldn’t walk away, like he hadn’t had the right to say “no” and have it be respected. 

How could this have happened without him seeing it for months? Blaine had never given any indication, had he? If anything, he was always so affectionate with Kurt, crossing and stepping over Kurt’s comfort boundaries easily, asking for and needing more reassurance in the form of physical closeness. Blaine hugs him, often, takes his hand without warning, and, on at least two occasions, has managed to get Kurt to cuddle with him, despite Kurt’s better judgement and protests. And maybe it was nice -- nice to be touched and held in a way that has nothing to do with sex. But it feels wrong, too -- wrong because Blaine is Ryan’s boyfriend, not his. 

Wrong because every time he holds Blaine, he aches with the force of wishing that Blaine _was_ his. 

Maybe it says something important that Blaine seeks him out for comfort. That Blaine needs to be held by him. Kurt knows that Blaine trusts him deeply. In the light of last night’s revelations, it’s painfully clear that Blaine probably trusts him more than Ryan. And maybe he should have read more into Blaine’s willingness to be close to him, but how could he, when he’s been so busy trying to sort out his own tangled emotions? When it is so hard to walk away from the longing in his bones, the desire to be the kind of boyfriend that he knows Blaine deserves. To be the one to love him and hold him, to touch him-- 

It’s a thought that stops him cold, because he _can’t_. Because he isn’t Blaine’s boyfriend; he’s just a hopeless boy, helplessly in love with someone he won’t ever deserve. 

Checking the clock, he sighs. He has a final in two hours, and he really needs to study, or, at least, he should. Waffling, he fiddles with his computer for a minute. He has a steady grade and he is sure he knows the material. It’s a moot point, anyway, because his finger is already clicking the mouse over his Google toolbar. He knows he isn’t going to be studying; his brain has already justified dismissing it. Starting Blaine’s CD at the beginning, Kurt looks up the lyrics for the album. Maybe Blaine isn’t his boyfriend. Maybe he’s been remiss, or a bad friend, too caught up in wanting, in longing, to really be there for Blaine. Maybe he can rectify that, at least a little. 

Blaine loves this CD. He’s tried so many times to get Kurt to listen to it, and he has; he’s tried more than once, but doesn’t seem to understand what it is about this particular album that’s drawing Blaine in. He’s seen the rest of Blaine’s music collection -- older stuff from the 70’s, a lot of top 40 type stuff -- nothing close to this. But, maybe, somewhere hidden in these lyrics and the cacophony of sounds and anger, there is a clue, something to help him understand what’s going on. 

In the two hours before his final, Kurt manages to listen to the whole CD twice through. He comes out the other end feeling wrung out but strangely hopeful. Thoughtfully, he traces a pen over and over the same doodles, wondering. It really is like a play, songs that tell a story. Most are painful, difficult to even listen to. Basic and jarring and so very raw. And yet, the story ends on a positive note -- or as close as it can, and Kurt has to wonder if it’s that positivity at the very end, the repeated mantra, _the worst is over_ , that keeps Blaine listening. 

He sees the text when he’s getting his bag together. 

_When are you going home?_

Kurt can feel his face light up seeing Blaine’s name on his phone screen. Knowing that things must be okay between them, despite last night. It’s not everything Kurt wants, because he wants Blaine. He wants to be texting about getting together over break. Plans to introduce Blaine to his father, nights driving out to Blaine’s home in Westerville. Minutes and hours like last night, wrapped up and so close, so desperately close to every beautiful line of Blaine’s body; only better. He wants to be allowed even closer, to touch, to trace a slow fingertip over each dip, over the line of Blaine’s jaw and lips. To tell him, _love_ a word suspended between them. 

He wants so much, yes, but, for now, this will have to be enough. 

_At five, my father is coming to pick me up. You?_

They text while he walks across campus. Kurt knows he won’t get to see Blaine again before the New Year -- Blaine is leaving in an hour, when Ryan comes to get him -- and his heart clenches a little. He doesn’t know much about Blaine’s family, but he knows enough to understand that Blaine is alone a lot. That without Ryan, he’ll be almost completely alone. 

_Want to get together sometime over break?_

Kurt thinks of Blaine, Blaine with Ryan, the way he always makes himself smaller somehow, quieter. How easily he swallows his words, biting down on the ends of sentences. The way he lets Ryan lead, lead, always lead. 

Sweet Blaine, who, when left alone, laughs with his eyes crinkled. Who dances by himself in the middle of his dorm room, talking about making music and art while ignoring his books on business and international policy. Who has a collection of suspenders in the back of his closet he never wears, no matter how many times Kurt has encouraged him to. 

Blaine, who smells like spice and heat, whose skin begs to be kitten-licked and kissed, whose fingers tangle too easily with Kurt’s, olive and warm against the cooler tones of his. 

_I’d love that._

Blaine, whom he’ll miss, whom he already misses, because, _god_ , does he love that boy, so, so much. 

~*~ 

They only manage to get together once over break, shuffling the time in to meet halfway for coffee in the middle of the week. The New Year is two days away, and Kurt is absolutely exhausted from the rush of holiday dinners and time spent with family and friends. 

It’s a little ridiculous, feeling nervous when it’s only been a week since he’s seen Blaine, but as he swings the heavy door of the coffee shop open, Kurt has to resist the urge to wipe damp palms on his jeans. Not that he ever would, but still. 

He searches the shop, knowing he’s been running late and Blaine is probably already there. Finally, he spots Blaine, almost dropping his messenger bag in surprise -- Blaine is almost unrecognizable: hair slicked back in a way Kurt hasn’t seen him wear in a long while, subdued button-up shirt in entirely the wrong shade of orange for his skin tone, and a look on his face that twists Kurt’s heart in all the wrong ways. 

Blaine looks tired. Not just tired though, but… less, somehow. Slipping behind the display of coffee beans, Kurt takes in his appearance. Blaine is slouched low in a booth, absently playing with the sleeve of his coffee cup, watching the parking lot outside his window. His eyes are detached, his head tilted back against the booth. 

“I’m sorry, I know I’m so late.” Breezing up to him, Kurt can feel the force of his plastered-on smile, trying much too hard. His laugh is a little more genuine when Blaine starts, jumping at the sound of his voice. But when Blaine smiles it’s the most real thing Kurt’s seen in a long time, and it floods Kurt, warm air and happiness and, god, he’s really, really missed Blaine. 

“Hi.” Blaine is standing, shuffling awkwardly out of the booth to crush Kurt in a too close hug he is helpless to resist, even as he is complaining that Blaine is ruining the drape of his scarf. “I’m so glad we could get together.” Blaine’s enthusiasm is kind of adorable. 

“I am, too.” His hand is on Blaine’s arm, gentle but distancing him just a little, his stomach trembling because it would be so easy, easy like breathing, to run his fingers up and brush them against the skin of Blaine’s neck. Only he can’t. A small step back and a little smile later, he’s safe. “I’m going to grab some coffee. Do you want more, or something to eat?” 

Blaine declines and offers to sit with Kurt’s bag. Kurt gratefully walks back toward the counter, feeling the jolting weakening of his legs and arms, resisting the urge to turn and look back, to smile or wink or generally make a lovesick fool out of himself. 

It’s a conversation he’s had with himself every day of vacation, every day he hasn’t seen Blaine. That even if it weren’t for Ryan, Kurt would have no right to him. No right to want something so selfish when Blaine is so broken. When he’s been so blind, so caught up in fighting how much he loves this boy to see how much pain Blaine is really in. Blaine deserves so much better than him. 

_Game face, Hummel_. Steeling himself, he gathers his coffee, sliding into the seat across from Blaine gracefully. There is no sense in lingering over wishes when having Blaine as a friend is more than enough. More than he’s ever had with anyone else, because Blaine _gets_ him. Blaine seems to enjoy and appreciate nearly everything about him, including his bitchy moods and superior attitude (which isn’t hard to understand, Kurt thinks, because he is so clearly right most of the time). 

Even better, though, is how Blaine just gets that Kurt needs, that he wants, and that sometimes, growing up the only out gay kid in a small town really fucked with his head and makes him do really stupid stuff. He might not ever be a lover, but this -- the comforting familiarity of Blaine across a table from him -- is more than enough. 

“So, what have you been up to?” 

Carefully prying the lid off his cup, Kurt glances up. “Cooking, shopping, catching up with friends, family stuff, _oh my god_ , you would not believe what Finn said to his girlfriend over dinner.” 

So they talk. Or, rather, _he_ talks, trying hard to get Blaine to laugh, worrying over the creases next to his eyes, which only come with the most genuine smiles and are conspicuously absent. Still, Blaine does laugh, even if it’s a bit wistful. 

“How is your family?” Head tilted, Kurt studies the way Blaine bites his lip, fiddling with his now empty cup. 

“Fine, I think.” Blaine’s shrug is a study in concealed unhappiness. “They had a last-minute change of plans, so they are in Europe right now.” 

Head still tilted, Kurt watches the way Blaine shrugs off the loneliness, the way he’s trying so hard to construct a harder exterior, the façade that he doesn’t somehow care that he’s been alone over Christmas. 

“Blaine.” Leaning forward, Kurt catches Blaine’s hand. “You should have called. You know you are always welcome at my house; I told you that.” 

The squeeze he gets back is fleeting and dismissive. “Kurt, it’s fine, this happens all the time. I just went over to Ryan’s; they’re used to having me over.” And, like that, it’s swept away and Blaine is telling a story about a get-together with his and Ryan’s old friends from high school and acting like everything is fine. Struggling to keep up and give Blaine the space he seems to need, Kurt smiles and laughs and asks all the right questions, all the while wondering _why_. Why it seems that every time he thinks he’s broken through, every time he’s sure he’s dug under the exterior and made his way into some trusted inner space where Blaine really lives, he just stumbles into another wall. 

And then they are lingering outside, late for prior commitments but unwilling to go just yet, the initial strangeness and distance having dissolved into something more comfortable. Kurt has to work at his smile, because he can see the way Blaine begins to shrink back into his skin as his phone signals another call that he ignores in favor of conversation. And he wants to take pity, tell Blaine to answer the call, but they both know it’s Ryan and neither wants to subject the other to that phone call right now. Kurt doesn’t have to be told to know Ryan loathes him; that much was clear the night Kurt called Ryan to tell him that, yes, Blaine was with him and, no, he could not talk. 

It’s maybe a little inappropriate, how much Kurt enjoys being hated by Ryan. Because it is so, so mutual. 

When they finally do part, it’s with a hug that’s a touch too long and desperate from Blaine. Hugging isn’t something Kurt generally does naturally or easily, but there’s something so needy about Blaine in that moment that he can’t do anything but close his eyes and hold tight, promising to call him soon and see him in a few weeks when they get back to school. Seeing the changes in Blaine, though, even after a week home, Kurt is more than a little apprehensive.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: underage drinking, physical abuse, and yet again, Kurt slut shaming himself. Poor thing.

The first two weeks back at school are challenging for Blaine. Coming from an empty house and chaotic weekends with Ryan’s family and all the drama inherent there, the familiarity of his dorm, lunches with Jeff, and movie nights with Kurt and Kevin feel like almost too much.

Ryan’s family has always been wonderful to him, warm and accepting. But they are also strange and argumentative and tend to subject him to the most uncomfortable fights, often drawing him in and asking him to take sides. As a natural born people-pleaser, this often leaves him tense and frustrated. So many nights he dreams about them, nightmares in which no matter what he does or says, he offends one person or another in turn. He wakes up sweating and nauseated and exhausted. 

One of his favorite things about school is how far out of his life he feels there. Jeff, Nick, Kevin -- none of them treat him like he has all the answers (or any really). Here, he feels safer, able to breathe, and, for a little while, just _be_. There’s an adjustment period the first few weeks back. 

When he first went home, it was almost like he had forgotten what it was like before he met Kurt. How gray and lonely everything is. Because Kurt... Kurt is color and vivacity, and he brings so much to Blaine’s life, lighting and easing everything around them. Going home, then, was a crash course in true routine; it hurt at first, but after a few days he wore it like a second skin he’d never left. 

The transition had felt something like whiplash. Blaine felt it the most the first week, instinctively deferring to Kurt and apologizing for everything, up until the night Kurt snapped, coldly informing Blaine he preferred his friends with an opinion and _could he please actually locate his balls and offer one?_

He’d laughed through the sting, which had lessened when Kurt had laughed along, patting him on the back. 

“That’s more like it.” Kurt’s smile was sweet and genuine. It felt a little like sunrise, splashes of red through yellow. “I saw that flash of annoyance. A few more jabs and you’ll be ready to yell at me.” 

~*~ 

Blaine was smart enough to plan his schedule so that he never had Friday classes. Two weeks into the semester, Blaine starts his weekend frantically cleaning his room, Kurt and Jeff watching as he mutters to himself, throwing the occasional scattered shoe or book at Jeff. 

“God, this is _your_ mess, get off your ass and help me!” Blaine’s voice is somewhat muffled, as his head is in his closet. Jeff ignores him, continuing to chat with Kurt, who for once is being less than helpful. Annoyed, Blaine backs out of his closet -- no matter how he arranges it, it still looks helplessly disorganized, and, _god_ , why does he even care? It isn’t as if his parents are going to open the door and look in there. 

“What’s his problem?” 

Ignoring Kurt’s whisper, Blaine moves on to his desk, which he’s already cleaned twice, wondering if there is any way to make it look less cluttered. More upstanding, responsible… organized? Shifting his pencil caddy, Blaine spins around and examines the room. 

“I don’t know. His parents are coming up,” Jeff replies. 

“Oh my god, you guys, seriously, are you just going to sit there, or can you, like, actually be useful and help me clean?” Frustrated, Blaine threads a hand through his hair, wincing when he remembers he gelled it down that morning, anticipating the arrival of his parents and Ryan. 

“Blaine,” laughing, Kurt comes to stands in front of him, “your room is clean. Jeff even looks presentable. Calm down. Why are you so worked up?” 

“You just--“ cut off by the knock on the door, Blaine freezes, panic clear on his face, before the door swings open to reveal Ryan, fresh flowers in hand. 

“Oh, thank god.” Blaine closes his eyes. “I thought you were them already.” 

“Nope, just me.” Ryan’s smile seems a bit uncertain, but he comes in, offering the flowers sweetly, kissing Blaine’s cheek, and setting a gift bag on the desk behind him. “Hi, babe. Happy birthday.” Sighing, Blaine pulls Ryan in, breathing against the cool leather of Ryan’s jacket. 

“Thank you.” He pulls away, taking the flowers and sniffing them sweetly. “These are beautiful. I wish I had a nice enough vase for these.” 

“I have one,” Kurt offers, which almost garners a genuine smile from Ryan. It fades, though, as soon he hears Blaine’s cell phone ringing. Blaine sees Kurt pausing by the door curiously, but ignores him when he sees his mother’s name on his caller ID. He turns so his back is facing the room as he answers, Ryan’s hand warm on his shoulder, stomach already dropping. 

~*~ 

Kurt pauses, watching as Ryan crowds closer, almost protectively, while Blaine speaks quietly into the phone. When Blaine hangs up, he just stands there, looking down. Without speaking, Ryan gathers him in close, whispering something into his ear, and, for just a moment, Kurt can see it. He doesn’t know what is wrong, but something is. It is obvious, however, that Ryan does, even without being told. Obvious that he already knows how to comfort Blaine, that this is an old routine for them. For the first time, Kurt can say he understands why Blaine stays. Because what he is watching now... that is some sort of love, something he knows Blaine needs desperately. 

“Come on, we’ll go out. Maybe Kurt and Jeff want to hang out, and we can make a night of it.” Ryan is rubbing Blaine’s back in small circles, eyes on Kurt, asking, and Kurt is nodding, shooting a wide eyed glance at Jeff, who seems nonplussed. 

“That sounds great.” Jeff’s voice is bright, almost false. Kurt can see Blaine nodding a little, leaning his head against Ryan’s shoulder, and for a minute he hates himself, hates Ryan and all of them, really, struck with the force of wishing it was _him_. Wishing he could be the one who knows what Blaine needs, the one to hold him and comfort him. 

Unnerved and upset with himself, Kurt excuses himself, ostensibly to get the vase. He takes his time, changing his outfit and talking to himself firmly about the boundaries of friendship, about giving Blaine what he has to offer and nothing more. 

~*~ 

They go out to dinner, Ryan and Kurt actively ignoring mutual dislike, focusing on Blaine -- on cheering him up, making him laugh. Kurt is reasonably sure there is no power on earth capable of making him forgive Ryan for the things he’s done to Blaine, yet, tonight, with Blaine so tiny, vulnerable and sad, Kurt can tell Ryan is helping to hold Blaine together. 

He is still pissed at him, though. At least for now, though, he has another target to focus his anger on: Blaine’s parents, who promised to come up for their son’s birthday only to cancel at the last minute. Who had gotten his hopes up after a holiday spent alone in an empty house, only to decide tickets to the symphony were somehow more important than seeing their son for the first time in months. 

Kurt tries to imagine Blaine’s life, growing up with people so obviously callous. Kurt might have grown up missing a mother’s touch, missing the sort of maternal tenderness she’d provided instinctively, but at least he’d had it. He wonders how two people as obviously selfish as Blaine’s parents had managed to forge someone so incredible and warmly giving as Blaine. 

Although everyone but Ryan is underage they have fun at dinner regardless. By the time they leave, Blaine’s smile is almost genuine. Ryan is nearing the far side of tipsy, and, for reasons Kurt completely understands, every time Ryan orders another drink, Blaine tenses. 

They make their way to Sarah’s, Blaine good-naturedly steering Ryan and laughing along as Kurt and Jeff make up their own raunchy lyrics to classic Broadway songs. Blaine’s birthday isn’t until the next day, but Ryan wants to keep Blaine busy and having fun, so they all agree that the party at Sarah’s seems worth checking out. 

Walking behind Ryan and Blaine, Kurt has time to calm his heart, thumping traitorously as he sneaks glances at Blaine, whose jeans are too tight to be ignored. When Blaine looks back over his shoulder, laughing and asking what is taking them so long, Kurt feels, literally feels, his heart stuttering in his chest. In the twilight-darkened streets, Blaine is the only thing he wants, alive and warm, something soft and wanting. 

Calling back a tart reply, he smiles and laughs with the others. Sarah’s apartment is full, redolent with alcohol and sweating bodies, and, for the first time in months, Kurt knows he is going to do something he regrets before he even does it, relishing the sting of knowledge, holding the shame close like penitence. 

Which just makes it so much worse, really, the next day. Piles more shame, more loathing and recrimination over his too thin skin, greasy with the memory of a stranger’s fingerprints, as he sits next to Blaine on a bathroom floor and examines the weight of each of Blaine’s tears, mapping the too fine rivulets of his skin, eyes tracing the line of a cut that will scar over and over with his eyes, wondering if he will ever manage to be what Blaine needs when he needs it. 

~*~ 

When he was 16, Blaine never would have foreseen this. That day, when Ryan stopped him on the staircase at Dalton to ask what time it was, he never would have guessed it would lead him to this. This moment, this place, this broken. 

In the harsh fluorescence of the bathroom, the cut on his forehead is even uglier than he imagined or remembered. He wants to be sure the memory of how he got it is the same, but, right now, he’s not sure anymore what is right. How he could be so sure he knew what was happening, only to walk away from the party still with Ryan, confused and turned around and inside out. 

~*~ 

Maybe Kurt had been trying to prove something, but he made sure to get that boy’s name and phone number. Blaine wasn’t there; he had been lost in conversation with Ryan in the kitchen when Kurt smiled coyly at the boy across the room. By the time Kurt was in the bathroom, panting and shamefully undone, he’d almost forgotten about Blaine altogether. 

By the time he’d left the bathroom, disgusted with himself, skin crawling, Blaine was gone. 

~*~ 

Blaine still isn’t sure what they had been arguing about. He remembers Ryan drinking, then drinking more, and the way each drink felt like a brick, weighing down and filling him with dread. Ryan drinking when Blaine was drinking as well was moderately tolerable, if only because Blaine was more numbed. Drunk Ryan was handsy, pushy and rough with his body in ways he usually only was with his words. Ryan like that was the most hurtful kind of enigma, capable of transitioning from sweet and caring, holding Blaine and whispering _I’m here, I love you_ as he listened to the his mother’s frighteningly false apologies, to grabbing and demanding, jealous and ugly with accusations. 

It doesn’t really matter, Blaine knows. The next day, he’ll sit in an empty bathroom and wonder how it is that Ryan has managed to unstitch every promise he’s ever made to himself. How Ryan’s words can be enough to make him doubt even the things he knows for sure. 

_I’ll leave if he ever hits me._

It’s a promise Blaine has made with hope and trepidation for two years. It’s twisting with self-loathing, as if he’s been wishing for the moment when Ryan would hurt him, if only so he would finally, _finally_ have reason enough to leave, all the while trusting that Ryan would never actually hurt him. 

Those words had come verbatim out of Ryan’s mouth. Even as Blaine had fumbled with the dish towel he’d stolen from Sarah’s kitchen, red with blood from the cut on his forehead, Ryan’s words had followed him into the cold night assaulting and making him doubt himself. 

“I’d never hurt you, come on, you know that.” Ryan’s hand grabbing his arm was rough and pulling. Blaine swung around and yanked his arm away, sending Ryan stumbling drunkenly into a car. 

“ _Do. Not. Touch. Me._ ” Blaine pressed the towel to his throbbing forehead harder. 

“Blaine, come on, stop it. You’re acting crazy. Why are you doing this to me? What kind of person do you think I am?” 

“I don’t know. _I don’t know._ ” Blaine had been frantically near tears, feeling Ryan’s words like acid, leaking through every defense he’d built. He didn’t mean to make Ryan feel horrible, or like a bad person, because he knew Ryan wasn’t a violent man by nature, and he’d never mean to hurt Blaine. But he had, and Blaine had promised himself, clinging to the idea like the most pitiful of life preservers. This was his way out. Something so heinous even Ryan wouldn’t be able to talk his way out of it. 

They’d disagreed about something. Ryan had pushed him, shoving Blaine hard enough to knock him into the counter, forehead colliding with the corner of the top cabinets, splitting his skin immediately. Blaine _knew_ this. 

Only Ryan didn’t remember it that way at all. 

“God, Blaine what is wrong with you? You tripped! At least let me look at it and make sure you’re alright.” 

Moving fast, Blaine shifted away, walking backwards, trying to get some distance. “Ryan. You pushed me. You pushed me! How can you not-- how can you…” Frustrated, he spun around. _Walk away, walk before he has a chance to change your mind._

Yet, despite his own promises to himself, morning found him sharing a bed with Ryan, head aching and heart needle-pricking with hurt. Now, with Ryan finally, _finally_ convinced to go before he would be late for work, Blaine stands in the bathroom alone, examining the remains of the day before. His forehead is cut, high up near his hair by his left temple, of that he is sure. Of anything else, he’s hopelessly confused and frustrated. 

The thing is, he remembers Ryan pushing him, but Ryan -- god, somehow, Ryan is so convincing -- somehow, in less than 30 minutes of pleading conversation and shouts, he’d managed to confuse Blaine into wondering if he was maybe exaggerating. If somehow he really had tripped. 

Blaine wonders how it is he can so clearly remember one thing happening, yet doubt his own sanity and memory at the same time. 

He’s been in the bathroom for over an hour, ignoring Jeff’s questions and entreaties to at least let him in to pee. Curled on the floor, back against the cool, cracking tile, Blaine sits in the silence. 

His promise, his lifeline, the hidden door he’s stitched into every painful moment with Ryan, had turned out to be nothing more than smoke and mirrors. A promise he’d made to himself for years -- born both of desperation and the understanding that he would put up with a lot, but he respected himself far too much to ever let anyone hurt him _that_ much -- turned out to be a promise so easily broken by another person’s words. 

He’s not sure if he’s more disappointed to find that his only way out was not a way out at all, or by the knowledge that he’s unable to keep any promise to himself, any part of himself untouched. That all the parts of him, expectations for who he was and what he deserved, had turned out to be false.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: reference to the physical altercation in the previous chapter. Discussion of moments of dubcon

By the time Kurt gets to Blaine, he’s been in the bathroom for three hours. Jeff gave up a while ago; Blaine suspects he’d gone to get Kurt at some point, hoping he would get through to Blaine.

Unlike Jeff, Kurt has no qualms about popping the flimsy lock on the bathroom door before shutting them both inside. Blaine doesn’t move, just watches with his head on his knees as Kurt takes a towel and folds it up before sitting next to him, shoulder pressed warm and soothing against his. Blaine closes his eyes, unwilling to talk. He just wants the silence -- and the comfort of Kurt’s presence. Fingers trace the line of his forehead, and when Kurt exhales it’s loud -- too loud in the quiet of the room. Blaine flinches but doesn’t pull away as Kurt’s hand moves slow and gentle over his head and down his back before coming to rest there. Blaine is sure the sound of his breath is lost in this moment when he’s got nothing left. 

When he does finally speak, it’s with his face pressed into the crease between his knees, into the sweet dark, arms around his head, anonymous and muffled. “I promised myself so many times I’d leave if this ever happened.” Next to him, Kurt is shifting closer, to hear better maybe. He waits, wondering what Kurt will say. 

“And are you?” Kurt’s being careful, Blaine can tell. Modulating his voice, weighing each word. Treating him like a skittish animal; it would be insulting if it weren’t so accurate. 

“It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?” 

When he looks up, it’s into Kurt’s eyes, clear and stunningly blue. They don’t blink, either of them, until Kurt moves. Slowly, with so much care, he kneels in front of Blaine, taking his face in both hands, looking right at him. 

“It won’t ever be too late.” 

He’s firm and sure and so, so right. Blaine feels so much right then: his heart beating too fast and hard, tears sliding over Kurt’s thumbs, shaking.The way his breathing seems to stutter, ripping in and out with little grace or rhythm. The moment when his whole body seems to sag and then firm again. The moment when he realizes Kurt is right. This could be the rest of his life -- him, unhappy and broken and desperate to find a way out, always searching for that hidden door that will lead to happiness. 

A door that was really there all along. Because that door has always been this -- the courage to choose. To choose his happiness, his well-being, his life, and his wants, over Ryan’s. 

“I need my phone.” He clears his throat, trying again, “I need my phone, please, and maybe some privacy.” 

Kurt stares, assessing, then nods. When he comes back with Blaine’s phone, he pauses for a moment, dropping a tentative hand on Blaine’s head. “I’ll be right outside the door if you need me, okay? Do you want me to get rid of Jeff?” 

“No--“ anxiously fiddling with his phone, Blaine bites his lip. If now is the time he is going to start taking for himself, and asking for what he needs, he might as well do it right. “Yes. If he doesn’t mind, that is.” The gentle pressure of Kurt’s thumb is his answer. Blaine watches Kurt close the door carefully behind him. Closing his eyes, he takes a few more shaky breaths before calling Ryan. 

~*~ 

When Blaine comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later, he finds Kurt standing in the middle of the room, looking unsure and anxious. He tosses his phone, already turned off, in the direction of his bed, missing spectacularly but not caring, ignoring Kurt’s wince as it cracks hard against the floor. 

Tired and hurting everywhere -- his head, his lungs, his fingers and heart -- he brushes past Kurt and curls up on his bed, facing the wall. 

For once, he’s not listening for Kurt. Blaine isn’t worried Kurt will be offended or upset that he’s not talking to him or even acknowledging him, because, right now, the only thing Blaine can do is breathe. Breathe through the pain of hurting someone else. Breathe through the knowledge that he’s responsible for the cracks in Ryan’s voice, confused and hurting and begging him not to do this. He alone is the one choosing what feels like the most selfish path of all: his own happiness. 

Behind him, he hears Kurt moving, the click of the computer mouse and the snap of the lights being turned off. When Kurt comes to him, covering him with a warm blanket, Blaine half turns, grabbing Kurt’s hand where it lingers on his shoulder. He’s not asking, really, because he has no idea what he’d ask for now that might make any of this easier to bear; somehow, Kurt is answering nonetheless. Kurt sits, moving slowly; even in his state, Blaine knows Kurt isn’t sure he’s doing the right thing. He shifts back, the weight of Kurt’s outstretched leg comforting along his back, Kurt’s hand tethering him, the connection between his hand and Blaine’s shoulder the only thing he feels that is keeping him grounded and real. The only thing keeping him from flying apart completely. It’s a little startling to hear the first notes of music, the carnival glass and chaos before Tim Kasher’s voice comes on, screaming and tortured in the background. 

“Right now, really?” Rusty and crackling, his voice is almost lost. 

“Just listen. I want you to tell me the most important part you hear.” Kurt’s fingers ghost down his arm once. “And then I’ll tell you what I hear.” 

~*~ 

Twenty minutes later, Kurt can feel it in the tension of Blaine’s muscles as they gather, and soon he’s sitting up, leaning back against the cool plastered wall of the room. Their legs are tangled, and Kurt has a stitch in his side from sitting propped against nothing but the post of the bunk bed. He’s too tall to be sitting like this, really, but he doesn’t dare move, because he can see it and it’s all over Blaine’s face, the way the music and the emotions are washing over him. It’s in the fine vibration under his skin and the way his eyes are screwed shut. 

Kurt knows when Blaine’s reached it, when he’s lost to whatever it is he’s taking from this music and this moment, and his heart feels like it’s broken with the doubling of love and want. When Blaine’s fingers seek his, threading and squeezing hard, Kurt has to bite down on his lip to keep the tears in, to keep his eyes open and wide and taking in everything so he’ll know later what needs to be done, what words and gestures and touches will be needed to put this boy back together. 

Moving carefully, Kurt draws his legs from under Blaine’s, tugging his nerveless fingers back, shuffles over to the bathroom, and comes back with a box of tissues. Pausing to stop the music, he kneels carefully next to Blaine, bumping the back of his hand with the box. Curling up next to him, Kurt listens to Blaines breaths stuttering through his tears. 

“Do you think he make a ghost of you?” 

When Blaine breathes next it’s with a fully body shudder and then Kurt’s holding him, arms wrapped tight and lips thin-pressed, meeting each muttered, _he did, he did,_ with the rebuttal, whispered fierce against Blaine’s hair, _he didn’t, he didn’t._

~*~ 

Later, tired and sore and a little sweaty, Kurt starts at the sound of his empty stomach. He thinks Blaine might have been sleeping, head against said offending stomach, but this turns out not to be the case when Blaine starts laughing. Rolling away and clutching his sides, Blaine’s laughter is enough to set Kurt off, even if his laughter is equal parts relief and embarrassment. 

“Pizza?” Wistful, maybe, or hopeful, Blaine’s question is directed toward the bed springs above him. Right now, Kurt could be deathly allergic to cheese and he’d get Blaine ten pizzas. He’d eat them all, too. 

“Pizza,” he responds definitively. 

He can see the ghost of a smile by the curve of Blaine’s cheek. Face pressed against Blaine’s comforter, Kurt wills his over-warm body to cool. 

Blaine fumbles for the cracked phone on the floor, giggling again when Kurt kicks at his hand with a huff, digging his wallet out of a back pocket. 

~*~ 

He’s still too warm, draped across Blaine’s bed, only now he’s overfull, fretting over the state of his skin and the grease from cheese he can smell lingering on him. Really, he’d like nothing more than to shower, but he can’t bring himself to leave this bed, to leave Blaine, who is on the floor. His legs are propped on the futon and hands are over his eyes, mumbling as they listen to the CD for the third time in a row. 

“You never told me.” Blaine’s voice is surprising, juxtaposed with the music and the heavy roiling of his own emotions in the small room. 

Kurt hums in response, waiting. When it’s time, he finds himself sliding down, crawling to lay next to Blaine on the floor. 

“ _I’m staying alive, kicking and screaming_? Don’t you think that’s a bit melodramatic, Kurt?” Blaine’s eyes are inches from his, golden honey in the glow of sunset through the tiny window. 

“Not those, dummy.” Kurt stares back, waiting, then nudges Blaine with a sharp elbow. “These.” 

There is something, something in Blaine’s eyes as he whispers the words along to the music, over and over as the music winds out and down. Something he doesn’t recognize, something that seems to make Blaine withdraw. 

“I thought that, too, you know.” Blaine’s eyes are closed now, profile strong in the gloaming. “Last time I broke up with him.” 

“Oh?” Kurt rolls up on one elbow, watching as Blaine swallows and frowns around the words. 

“That night we met, on the way home, you said something cheesy about it always being darkest before the dawn, and then, that night...” Kurt watches the way Blaine’s throat works around the words, the tension in his eyelids. “I always felt like… if I just had a good enough reason, he wouldn’t be able to argue a way around it. Like, I was always searching for that thing, something he would do that even he couldn’t find excuses for. Because I’ve given up on coming out of an argument with him. He always manages to talk his way around me, gets me so tied up and _fucking,_ I don’t know, I feel so guilty and bad, like I’ve made him feel terrible about himself, and it’s not about him most of the time, but he never saw me. It was never about me, even when it should have been.” 

Blaine’s fingers are running, back and forth, over the cut, mapping and tracing, and Kurt is sure he’s not even aware he is doing it. He doesn’t dare stop the motion, wanting to keep Blaine talking. 

“I don’t want to hurt him. I can’t stand the thought of hurting him, or anyone, but, sometimes, he really hurts me.” His voice is waning toward thoughtful, eyes open and unfocused. “Most of the time, really.” 

Suddenly, Blaine turns, eyes focused. “It got to be so hard, trying to pretend my skin didn’t crawl when he touched me. Trying to hide the fact that I wanted to be anywhere else -- eventually I had to tell him I just couldn’t anymore.” 

He laughs then; it’s sarcastic and lost, something broken that hurts in the air. “God, he thought I was crazy, he told Jeff I needed therapy because who tells their boyfriend they won’t have sex with them any more after being together for over a year?” His eyes dart away, and Kurt can see the embarrassment; he’d like to smooth it over but he won’t stop the rush of words, afraid he’ll never find Blaine ready to be this candid and vulnerable again. 

“That night, when I took him back, I knew I didn’t want to be there anymore. I knew, and I still took him back, because my unhappiness seemed so much smaller compared to his. And I knew I was done fighting, done trying to hold onto anything for myself. Hold onto any piece of myself, really.” 

Kurt has to lean in to hear the next parts, careful, so careful, to keep any part of his body from touching Blaine because he’s trembling, shaking hard. The tears are silent, falling from the lobes of his ears and into the carpet. 

“And when he put his hands on me I didn’t stop him -- I didn’t even _try_. What was the point? I was going to be unhappy anyway, and I hated myself for letting him back into my life anyway. W-- was there ever a p-- point?” 

It’s hard, maybe the hardest thing he’s had to do all day, not touching Blaine now. Later, he’ll wonder at how much Blaine has changed even the most basic parts of his life, the way he longs to comfort Blaine with the touch of his fingers. 

“I thought of this song that night, when I was falling asleep -- _the sunrise is just over that hill, the worst is over_ , right?” 

Tentatively, Kurt nods, eyes on Blaine’s. He shifts back suddenly when Blaine rolls and sits up, arms in the air and voice louder, breaking around the hard edges of the words, “It’s not, Kurt. _It isn’t_.” He gestures toward the window and the muted orange light in the room. “The sun is fucking setting, and it’s like it always is, it’s always fucking dark, and every time I try to tell myself that’s it, that’s enough, and things are going to get better...” Hands in his hair, Blaine’s squeezing his eyes shut. Kurt kneels in front of him, hands in the air too, as if to soothe him; he can hardly see Blaine through his own tears, and he can’t stop himself from taking Blaine’s sturdy shoulders in his hands, from pulling him in close and trying, whispering into his ear. “Stop it. Stop it.” 

But Blaine can’t. He’s pushing at Kurt and struggling and crying hard enough that the breath is short and the words are almost unintelligible. 

“It’s not over, it’s not ever over, and it’s never, th-- there’s never room, f-- for me…and I just, Kurt, I jus--“ 

“I know, I know. It’s okay.” Kurt’s neck is wet with tears or snot or some combination, and he’s just rocking Blaine, holding hard enough he’s sure Blaine will have bruises in the morning. He doesn’t see where his tears leave Blaine’s hair wet. “It is, it is, I promise. I won’t let you, I won’t let you go back there. _I_ have room. I have room for you, I promise. _I promise._ ”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: uh...references to someone's father dying, a character we've not met and it's not a huge focus.

Blaine has been grateful all along for the many blessings in his life. Even at his lowest, he’s always been appreciative and thankful, but never more so than he is in the week following that disastrous birthday. Never more grateful, thankful, appreciative, indebted.

The first night he ever saw Kurt, he’d been drawn in -- by curiosity, by attraction. He’ll even admit to himself with a little shame, arousal. By desire for this boy, who was almost unfairly gorgeous and sensual. He’d never really wanted to examine that, to parse the language of that attraction, but he knew it was some form of curiosity -- about what it was like to be that uninhibited with a stranger, what it would be like to be just another anonymous boy in a bathroom. 

Blaine knows he is lost. He’s known for a long time, felt alone and isolated for years. Helpless, trapped -- so many insipid, banal adjectives that don’t come close to touching how he feels, how invisible and lifeless and out of control he is. 

He didn’t have to know Kurt to know they were not the same, not in any way. Even as a nameless stranger bumping into him in a bathroom, Kurt was obviously different. But, still, he’d thought, _this boy is just as lost as I am_. 

It sounds pretty close to judgment when he steps back and thinks about it, but, really, it’s not. He’s never judged Kurt, never felt that he’s been in any sort of position to judge. 

_Maybe_ , he’ll think later, _maybe I just **want** him to be lost. Someone in this world to be as lost as I am_. 

Once he’d gotten to know Kurt, come to love him, he knew he’d been right, because Kurt _was_ just as lost as Blaine. Maybe it came from a different place, because they were different people, but Blaine had known for a long time that every boy, every number not collected and every kiss and touch that Kurt regrets in the morning is just another way for him to feel real, to be seen. Just another way to stem the awful rush of invisibility, of loneliness and desperate wanting. 

So maybe it’s a little weird, the rush of gratitude he feels, thinking about that night. He’ll feel guilty about it for a while, how glad he is to have found someone just as fucked up as he is. Mostly because he knows it hurts Kurt -- both the loneliness and the way he tries to fix it. But without Kurt, Blaine is sure he never would have survived the day -- the week, the _months_ after his birthday. 

That morning -- the morning after he’d left Ryan, the morning after he’d woken up with a cut on his forehead, dried blood behind his ear and so many broken promises he’d made himself heavy in his hands -- that morning, he’d been more grateful for Kurt than he’d ever been for anything in his life, because it was Kurt who answered the door, Jeff tall and glowering behind him, to Ryan’s knock. 

There’s a part of him that wants to feel guilty for letting himself watch from his bed, sheltered by blankets. But he’d been tired, so he let himself. He watched the way Kurt placed his booted foot behind the door he’d opened a few inches and the flex of his forearm, gripping the doorknob. He let himself watch, but he didn’t listen, turning up the volume through his ear buds, washing away the memory of Ryan’s voice, letting his finger dial random songs as Jeff steps closer to Kurt, hand on his shoulder, lines of tension and frustration clear. He turned the music up even louder when they finally closed the door, eyes shutting as he turned his back, unwilling to face what they’d done for him and the inevitability of Ryan’s heartbreak at his hands. 

~*~ 

There are so many ways Blaine has fallen in love with Kurt, and none more than this: the way that Kurt encourages him to _be_. He lets Blaine exist, wants him to be selfish and irrational or angry and petulant or even excitable and hyper. He does it without pandering, only rolling his eyes as Blaine jumps onto the futon, which creaks dangerously under his weight, singing along to the soundtrack of Rent. It’s Kurt who takes his hand, guarded eyes softening blue, while he gets text message after text message from Ryan, eventually taking his phone and deleting them for him. 

Best of all, he weathers anger so well. Despite everything Kurt had been forced to withstand all through high school, he does it with grace and strength; he’s cold and beautiful, posture sure and strong because he _knows_. He tells Blaine in the moment, and hours after, that he knows it’s not directed at him and that it’s okay if it is, because it’s new. Blaine is learning to let himself feel things like anger and annoyance for the first time. He’s giving himself permission to ride out those feelings, rather than swallow them down and hollow himself a little more to make room for all the words unspoken. 

Kurt isn’t too gentle with him, either, not until the moments when Blaine tells him he needs it. He waits for Blaine to communicate what he needs so that he’ll learn to ask. One Friday morning, Blaine wakes up grumpy from nightmares and late for class. He’s annoyed and frustrated and snaps at Kurt, who shows up at his door mid-afternoon with coffee and a smile, but Kurt isn’t fazed by his mood and sharp words. He’s bitchy in turn, leaving the coffee with a cold face. 

“I’ll let you know when I’m ready to be your personal punching bag,” Kurt says, checking his watch in a show of sarcasm. “And that will be about never.” 

Blaine kind of hates that Kurt’s attitude makes him laugh even when he’s pissed off and moody. He’s not surprised to find himself in love, mostly because he’s known for a while. It’s easy, really, to let himself fall more and more, to let himself feel it now that the oppressive blanket of guilt has been lifted. It’s nice. 

Blaine loves Kurt without the expectation of more. For a while, it’s the place he feels safest, because it feels so good to have something nice in his life, someone who isn’t always tugging on him, pulling and pulling on his emotions and vulnerabilities. For the first month after he finally leaves Ryan, loving Kurt is just another one of the many emotions he’s trying to untangle and sort out. 

The second month, he gives himself permission to enjoy it, admitting that he’s entitled to that enjoyment. No harm comes from any of it, from the way he admires Kurt’s smooth skin, stretching along his jaw and down his neck, or the way he looks forward to making Kurt laugh -- his real laugh, the one that exposes his teeth and makes his eyes and nose scrunch. Kurt is interesting, biting and intelligent and, somehow, the most kind-hearted person he’s ever met. Kurt’s kindness is surprising and unexpected, carefully hidden behind many layers. Blaine feels special -- treasured, even -- that Kurt lets him see the deeper and more guarded sides of himself. 

Loving Kurt is a secret he wants to keep. It’s not something he expects Kurt to understand, not something he wants to saddle him with. Blaine knows he doesn’t have anything to give. His body still bears scars, some on top and some just under his skin, fingerprints Ryan-shaped and shameful. It’s not that he thinks he’ll be alone for the rest of his life. He doesn’t want to be. 

Looking in the mirror, there are so many things he sees, things that make his stomach ache. The boy in the mirror is, most days, a stranger who let someone violate him, turn him inside out, and hull him, because he was too weak to fight for himself. 

That boy is not anyone who should be with Kurt. Kurt deserves so much more. 

By the third month, Blaine has started to finally feel what it can be like to be himself. He’s stretching and expanding into his skin, owning himself in a way he hasn’t in a long time. It’s unexpected and frightening, sometimes, how much of himself he’d given over to Ryan. By the time March fades into April, Blaine is starting to forget what it was like to be in perpetual motion, frightened and hyper-aware of other people’s feelings and desires at all time. It begins to feel easy, even natural, to want something for himself and to have it. He starts to wear suspenders. 

April brings more than just spring, more than melted snow, slush to be avoided, spraying off the tires of bicycles on the wet pathways to his classes. 

For the first time in a long time, with April comes wanting. 

~*~ 

Blaine bounces on the balls of his feet a little, knocking in an excited flurry, impatient and jumpy. 

“Hey, Kurt.” His smile feels bright, too bright compared to the sleepy frown Kurt shoots his way. Blaine follows him cautiously, watching as Kurt crawls back into his bed without saying anything or acknowledging him. 

“Okay.” Blaine sets down his bag. ”Don’t you have class soon?” 

“Not going.” Kurt’s voice is muffled, his face buried in his pillow, hair adorably askew. Blaine has to stop himself from doing something inappropriate, which is especially difficult because Kurt looks warm and incredibly snuggly. 

“Why not?” He sits gingerly near Kurt’s knees, which shift back and away under the covers. 

“Tired.” He hears a yawn. Kurt turns to look at him, eyebrows challenging him to find fault with his reasons. Shrugging, Blaine turns to dig through his bag, unwilling to curb his enthusiasm just because Kurt is being lazy. 

“I got the new Vogue!” he sing-songs, dancing the magazine toward Kurt, who rolls over and sits up, reaching for it. “Nope. No, no. Only if you get out of bed and come get coffee with me.” 

“Ugh.” Kurt flops back, running his hands through his hair and grimacing. “I really wanted to stay in bed. My _sheets_ , Blaine.” Plaintively, he runs a hand over his sheets, which Blaine knows from experience are softer than should be allowed. 

“Fine.” Hopping easily on the excuse, Blaine toes off his shoes and stretches out next to Kurt, who stiffens and pulls away before pushing at him. 

“Blaine, what are you doing?” 

“Oh wow.” Giggling, Blaine burrows into the bed. “These sheets are so comfortable. You are so right. I’d never get to class-- ow! Hey, hey, stop the violence.” Playfully, he pushes Kurt back, then watches as Kurt sits up and crawls gingerly over him. 

“Aw, does this mean we’re getting up and going out for coffee?” 

“I thought you wanted coffee,” Kurt says. 

Blaine tries hard not to stare as Kurt stretches, toned stomach peeking from under the hem of his sleep shirt, in yoga pants that just… 

Looking away guiltily, Blaine shrugs. “I did, but your bed is super comfy.” He pouts adorably, ignoring Kurt’s eye roll. 

“Fine, but first let me brush my teeth and fix this.” Kurt gestures vaguely toward his head, indicating his hair, which is still adorably mussed. Lying down, Blaine watches Kurt gather his clothes. He admires the line of his flank, the way his muscles stretch and bunch. Idly, he thinks about Kurt’s hair, running his fingers against his scalp, how it would be warm and firm against his calluses, of skimming his lips over Kurt’s ear and jaw... 

_Oh, wow_. Blaine sits up too fast, catching his head on the bottom of Kevin’s bunk. 

“You okay?” Kurt’s voice cuts through his cursing. 

“Ow, fuck, yes, damn!” 

“I’m surprised. I didn’t think you were tall enough,” Kurt says. 

Blaine shoots Kurt a middle finger, but Kurt just laughs, turning back toward the bathroom while Blaine rubs resentfully at his head. He isn’t short, he’s.... average height. Yeah. Annoyed, he starts looking through the magazine without Kurt, even if it is childish. Right now, he definitely needs to keep his mind off of Kurt and his... assets ( _Oh god, I am so screwed_ ), until he can get away and think more clearly. 

~*~ 

In the end, they go for coffee. Blaine was unwilling to lie in a bed with Kurt, not when he was so mixed up and turned inside out. 

“Are you okay?” Kurt sets his mug down, palms flat on the table as he studies Blaine. 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” He tries to control the shoulder twitch, the way his eyes dart away -- he is a terrible liar, a bundle of nervous tells. That’s especially true around Kurt, who knows how to maximize the power of his mutable eyes, which roll when his lips quirk, pink and perfectly bowed. They must taste like coffee, and, for a second, he really wants to lean across that table and bite down hard on one of them. He fists a hand against the sticky laminate of the table instead, making an excuse about late-night studying. 

~*~ 

Blaine studies late into the night, reading ahead by over a week in more than one class and finishing a paper a full three days before it’s due, which is a feat for him. Procrastination and panic are usually his two most constant companions. 

By 2 a.m., he’s exhausted, has a headache, and is determined to fall asleep immediately. He knows he’ll have to think about this eventually. Wanting is a skin he isn’t comfortable wearing. It makes him itch, makes him jerk nervously against the pins and needles in his legs and hands. Wanting hasn’t been about his needs for a long time. Wanting is being wanted, being taken. It is the memory of hands, often rough or careless on him and against him. 

Nauseated, Blaine closes his eyes and counts the beats of his breath -- long and flat inhales, warm and rounded exhales -- against the ticking metronome of his heart. 

~*~ 

Blaine finds himself wandering side streets around campus for over an hour in the middle of the week. It’s a beautiful day, sunny and dry; flowers are rioting throughout carefully planned beds. The semester will be over soon enough, and he still hasn’t told his parents he isn’t coming home for the summer. He doubts they will mind -- a bitter corner of his brain wonders if they’d even notice -- but they pay his tuition, which is generous enough, considering how many friends he has amassing thousands of dollars in student loans. 

The price he pays is choice. His father pays for his education, so long as he pursues what has been determined to be a “worthwhile” education. Blaine wonders, sometimes, if he would mind so much, had he gone to New York like he’d wanted to. At least there he could audition. Get experience. Earn a degree to please his father and have as a backup. But this is Ohio, not New York. 

The world around him is suddenly full of possibilities he hasn’t considered for himself in three years. If he wanted, he _could_ go to New York. His parents don’t care where he goes to school, so long as he goes and he doesn’t waste their money on an arts degree. Without Ryan’s guilt and influence to bind him, he could transfer. 

Stopping to sit at a bench, warmed from the sun, Blaine thinks of New York, of noise and grit, of buildings for miles. Of opportunity. 

He thinks of Kurt. 

There are moments every now and then, when he’s with Kurt, that make him wonder. Moments that seem to vibrate with promise and awareness. Sometimes he’ll find Kurt’s eyes on his, appraising and soft, and is sure Kurt feels it too. 

He loves Kurt and all the facets of his brilliant personality -- the ones he’s seen, at least. And, _oh_ , how he wants. He wants to lean forward and kiss him, or touch the pad of his thumb to a cheekbone, to trace the map of freckles, so light they are only visible close, close up. 

It’s a thought that beguiles and terrifies him. Kurt has experience and is beautiful and desirable, and Blaine can’t even stomach the thought of being touched in certain ways, not yet. Blaine knows it’s dumb to trust Kurt with his love but not his body, because loving Kurt is a gift; Kurt may not know, but Blaine has it in spades to give. It’s free and he’ll keep on doing it anyway, regardless of how Kurt does or does not feel about him in the end. 

“Thinking deep thoughts?” 

Looking up, Blaine smiles into the face of the sun, surprised and pleased. “What are you doing here?” Shading his eyes, he sees Kurt carrying a basket wrapped carefully in clear cellophane with a beautiful ribbon and small arrangement of spring flowers. His face is serious and pale. 

“I’m going to see Margo.” He shifts when Kurt sits carefully next to him, perching on the edge of the bench so as not to dirty his pants. Blaine examines the basket in Kurt’s lap. 

“Is it her birthday?” Blaine’s smile is puzzled. He didn’t realize Kurt and Margo were friends. Kurt is giving him an amused look, something fond but frustrated. 

“No, Blaine. Her father passed away. Didn’t Sarah tell you?” 

“Oh, god.” Blaine digs out his phone, thumbing through the missed calls he’s been ignoring. He is such a tool sometimes. “I was ignoring her calls.” Kurt’s shoulder bump is friendly. 

“Want to come with me? I was going to walk over to the apartment and see how she’s doing.” 

Blaine turns to look at Kurt, really _look_. Kurt looks tired but steady. He’s always steady -- it’s something Blaine has always really admired about Kurt. He seems to have an unbreakable core. Blaine wonders, sometimes, how Kurt might have turned out had his mother lived. 

“Sure. As long as you don’t think it’ll be weird, for her, I mean.” Shifting in his jacket, Blaine stands, taking the basket from Kurt. 

“I am perfectly capable of carrying my own load, Blaine.” Kurt’s dry observation comes from behind him, as Blaine has already started walking, but Blaine just shoots him a cheeky smile over his shoulder. 

“I know. I thought we could take turns.” He hears Kurt’s sigh before he makes up lost ground. “So…” cautiously, Blaine pauses as they cross the street, “is there a protocol for this I should know about?” 

“You mean in my capacity as president of the dead parent club?” 

Blaine winces, then stops. “Hey, no, come on.” Kurt looks away, blinking rapidly. Blaine shifts. “I just don’t want to say the wrong thing.” 

Kurt shakes his head and reaches for the basket. He doesn’t meet Blaine’s eyes, giving him a thin smile before he gestures with his head for them to keep walking. “Don’t ask her how she’s doing or holding up or anything like that. Because she’s not doing well, everything is shitty, and it sucks to have to answer the same questions over and over.” 

Stomach hollow, Blaine follows Kurt; his head hurts with wondering. Ahead of him, climbing the steps to Sarah’s second floor apartment, Kurt is radiating hurt and resignation. The palms of Blaine’s hands ache to touch, to smooth down the line of Kurt’s shoulders, over arms and into hands. If he could, he would pull Kurt against him so he could rest his chin on Kurt’s shoulder. 

But Kurt isn’t his to touch like that. 

Sarah answers the door with a small frown, which lessens when she sees Kurt and Blaine. He supposes it is only natural to feel uncomfortable and out of place; still, he can’t help feeling that his presence is intrusive and unwelcome. For all that Blaine loves to give, to make others feel better, he knows this is not anything in his power to fix or soothe. He doesn’t know Margo well either, having only met her a handful of times with Kurt outside of parties. 

Still, he does what feels best, giving her a hug. 

“I’m really sorry.” He looks into her eyes. They look clear, if not tired. Blaine has the feeling that she’s going through the motions. “If you need anything, call us, okay?” When Margo hugs him again, it’s with a tiny spark; he can feel it in the press of her fingertips against his back. Not wanting to get in the way, Blaine eases back into the kitchenette with Sarah, watching Kurt smile and gesture as Margo opens the basket. He’d seen magazines and a candle in there when he’d looked earlier, as well as what looked to be fabric; now that she’s pulling it out, he can see it is a beautiful cashmere scarf, shifting watercolours that match her colouring perfectly. 

Kurt is beaming as she wraps it, long fingers reaching out to smooth and adjust. Sarah is talking to him, something about a class, and Blaine absently answers. It’s a nod and a smile; he’s not even paying attention. Kurt’s hand is on Margo’s shoulder now, and her head is bowed, and he can’t hear the words, but Blaine is sure now that he’ll never love anything like he loves this boy. 

They walk in silence back to the dorm. It’s cooling now, the air shifting imperceptibly. The sun isn’t setting, but the day is waning nonetheless. Blaine watches Kurt as they walk, darting glances. Kurt walks with his arms wrapped around his middle as if he’s cold. His beautiful skin is light, almost translucent in the sunlight, and, for the first time, Blaine senses a cracking, as if the smallest touch might start a tidal wave, shattering Kurt. 

He’s not asked to, but he follows Kurt to his room, unwilling to leave him like this, shrouded in a sadness so heavy it’s palpable. He’s not even spared a glance as Kurt opens his door, leaving it open for Blaine as he unwinds his scarf. Standing in the middle of the room, Blaine watches the lines of Kurt’s back, the way his shoulders seem to tense as he balls his scarf, the way they sag as he leans, hands gripping against the back of an arm chair. He’s grateful, for once, to be the one comforting, pulling Kurt to him and tucking him in. 

Kurt’s tears are a surprise, quiet and contained. His body shimmers with the tiniest vibration as he cries, breathing fast and light. This is the most vulnerable Blaine’s ever seen Kurt; it’s heady, the trust Kurt has in him. He wonders at it, feeling like he’s been gifted something precious and rare. The boy in his arms is none of the things Kurt projects daily; young and exposed, needing something external. Something he seems to want from Blaine.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnnd we come to the end of this story. There's a sequel, maybe a bit longer than this one, which I'll post once I get it re-spagged. I hope you enjoyed? made it through? this story.

Blaine lets himself think about it for the first time that night: what it would be like, to touch Kurt. What’s more, he imagines what it might feel like to let Kurt touch him. To trust Kurt not to hurt him or push him, to trust that Kurt might care enough to listen to the nuanced communication of his fingers and skin. Under his sheets and blankets, Blaine feels warm. Too warm, electric and curious.

The thought of Kurt’s fingers and lips on his, on him, isn’t frightening. It’s intimate, close to the way he’s felt since this afternoon spent holding Kurt through his tears. 

When Blaine rolls over, he finds himself staring at the wall, fingertips ghosting over the sensitive skin just inside his wrist. He thinks maybe he wants this. All of it. He wonders if he’s worth enough, could be enough for Kurt, who needs and should have only the best things on this earth. Half frightened, tremulously hopeful, he wonders what Kurt might say, were he to ask. He thinks that maybe one day, he’ll take a risk and ask. 

A shout from the hallway covers the starting whine of his small fridge. For the first time since he’s shared a room, Blaine wishes for privacy, for a few stolen moments to think and dream and fantasize. Even without the privacy, he still has to smile. Desire is a new language and he’s so willing to learn, tracing the shapes of the letters and feeling the sounds of it in his mouth. It’s waking, sun rising in yellows and golds over the hill, blinding and incredible. 

~*~ 

“Hey,” Kurt says, breezing into Blaine’s room. His appearance forces a smile onto Blaine’s face. “I thought we were going to get together?” Kurt’s face draws with concern when he bends to look at Blaine. Blaine struggles to sit up, leaning back gratefully when Kurt waves him back. Kurt’s hand is cool on his forehead, and he has to laugh. It’s such a nurturing gesture. 

“I’m fine.” He pushes Kurt’s hand away gently, feeling a rush of warmth as Kurt sits next to him on the bed. “Just a headache. I’ve been studying too hard.” 

“Hmmm.” Kurt settles next to him. “Come here. Let me see if I can help.” 

Tugged down, Blaine rests his head on Kurt’s lap, unsure. Kurt’s fingers are soft at his temples, gaining confidence in touch as he sweeps circles over them, massaging through Blaine’s hair. Eventually, Blaine sighs, relaxing and boneless against Kurt. After a while, he can feel the headache fading and tension draining from his shoulders and neck. 

He moves carefully, looking up at Kurt, whose smile is small but happy. He is stunning in bright yellow and black, hair slightly depressed from the cap he’d been wearing when he came in. Yearning isn’t the word for how he feels, something restless is itching under his fingers. After so many years spent unhappy it’s stunning, how the only thing he feels when he is with Kurt is good. Blaine doesn’t stop to think, because good is enough. It’s all he wants for the rest of his life, and he’s willing to take some chances to get as much of it as he can. 

~*~ 

Much later, that night, Kurt will curse himself for wishing. For hoping. He’ll lay in bed, embarrassed and angry, wondering how he could have thought it possible that Blaine might really love him. Who _wouldn’t_ have thought it, with the way Blaine had looked at him like he was the sun? He’ll feel stupid and immature, remembering the surge of happiness and joy when he’d thought, _now is the time. He’s going to tell me_. 

He’ll try to regret the moment he’d mirrored Blaine’s lean, meeting him on an exhale that was frightened and hopeful, lips pliant and wanting. For a few seconds, it was _everything_ he’d been looking for from every boy he’d met and walked away from -- a perfect kiss. Despite the awkward angle, the way he’d combed his fingers through curls to hold Blaine close had felt like home. When Blaine leaned up more, propped on one hand, Kurt had exhaled, jolting at the feather-light touch of Blaine’s other hand against his chest. 

“Wow.” Blaine’s voice was broken, his eyes a little too bright. “Kurt-” 

_Now he’ll tell me he loves me_ , Kurt thought, breath catching with it. “Yeah?” 

Blaine just blinked slowly, inhaling carefully before pressing back into another kiss -- gentle at first but then a little hungrier, more curious and open. 

_Perfect._ At least, until Kurt had pulled away, eyes open wide and hoping, gasping and overheated. 

“God, this is what it’s like,” Blaine had said wondrously, looking down, long lashes fanning against his skin. Kurt had wanted to kiss those eyelids with his trembling lips. 

“What what’s like?” For once, he couldn’t even wince at the sound of his voice, high and thready, sweetness aching in his chest. The laugh bubbling in his throat died at the next words, whispered against his lips. 

“Wanting--” 

The word had washed over him like cold water, abrupt and shocking; he’d reacted instantly, pulling back and pushing away from the bed, forcing tears and hope down into his stomach. 

“What?” Kurt had swallowed, the memory of all those nameless boys, shameful and secreted in his heart, ghosting over him. “What? I- I’m not a toy, Blaine. Regardless of what I’ve done in the past, I’m not here for you to experiment with, or play with. I thought-- I thought you said I should expect more for myself. I thought you said that because you-- you cared about me.” Kurt had moved fast, gathering his shoes and hat as he spoke, voice cold and shrill. He hated himself like this, cutting and out of control, but he needed something, anything, to protect himself. 

“Kurt, no, I didn’t--” 

“No, Blaine.” He’d pulled back when Blaine reached for him. “I need you to leave me alone right now.” Eyes down, he moved into the hallway, shoes still in his hands. Never before had he felt like he did then. Blaine didn’t follow as Kurt slammed the door shut behind him, everything too fast and spinning and sudden. _Walk of shame_. It was a term he’d heard often, but no matter what he’d done since coming to school, he’d never understood the term so well as he did then. 

Late into that sleepless night, Kurt still feels it, regret and shame for the way he’s treated himself, the casual and callous disregard he’d paid his father’s advice, his body, his self-worth. But, in the end, Kurt realizes Blaine isn’t to blame any more than he is. He’s treated himself like he doesn’t matter, so why should he ever have expected anyone else to treat him any differently? Even if _anyone else_ really just boils down to one person. 

~*~ 

After half an hour of pacing and muttering indecisively in his room, Blaine find himself dry-mouthed and heart skittering at Kurt’s door. He’s not ready or sure of his words -- or what Kurt needs to hear from him -- but he has little choice now that Jeff has kicked him out of their room with instructions not to come back until he’s fixed things, _for the love of god_. 

Not that Jeff even knows what Blaine’s done. He only knows he came home to a wrecked, frantic roommate who had spent hours into the night agonizing over what he’d done. 

For a second just before he knocks, Blaine lets himself think back to those moments before he’d opened his stupid mouth and said it all wrong. Thinks of Kurt’s lips opening warm on his, and of himself, skin and heart and stomach unfurling and hoping. 

It’s easy now to understand he’d been a little turned around, too confused to think clearly enough to say the right things. A part of him had hoped that after thinking a while Kurt might realize those kisses, his foolish words, signaled steps he’d never consider risking without the safety of loving him desperately to prop him up. That he’d understand how difficult risking intimacy would be for Blaine. 

After thinking it through though, Blaine sees now that Kurt wouldn’t think that, though. Because for some unfathomable reason, Kurt has never seen himself as a worthy recipient of that kind of love. As someone who _could_ be loved. 

Blaine knows he’s messed up, but only with his words. He thinks now of that frozen frame in time, the space between their faces and the genuine hope in Kurt’s eyes. He thinks of it and trusts for the first time that he has something to give to Kurt they both desperately need. He’s always, _always_ felt a dearth of love deep inside, cutting and gnawing at him. Ryan had been a mistake, born of that desperate ache to be important to someone. He’d gotten it all wrong and backwards with Ryan. 

Now he understands that what he has to give, he wants to give to Kurt. He thinks maybe Kurt has something inside for him as well. Lips trembling in a small smile, Blaine thinks of the moment when they’d looked at each other and understood each other perfectly, before he’d ruined it all. _I can fix this_ , he thinks. Then he knocks. 

~*~ 

Kevin answering the door with a frown throws him a little; the deepening frown upon seeing Blaine throws him a little more. 

“Hey, is Kurt here?” Blaine hates that his voice is tentative, hates feeling unwelcome in a space where he’s always felt completely comfortable. Kevin shrugs, turning for a minute and ducking behind the door. Shifting, Blaine tries not to listen to the whispered conversation. Kurt has the right, even if Blaine hopes he won’t exercise it, to ask Kevin not let him in. 

“Yeah, come on in.” Kevin opens the door wider, turning to gather his laptop and some books. “I’ll be down at the library. I’ll see you later,” he says before closing the door quietly behind him. 

“Um… hi.” Rolling his eyes at himself, Blaine ventures a few steps into the room. Kurt is sitting at his desk, one leg folded under himself. He looks smaller than usual somehow. He avoids looking at Blaine and shrugs, twirling a pencil in his fingers. 

It’s all wrong, all of this. The air between them feels too dense, riddled with misunderstanding and tension. Blaine rolls his shoulders back and dives in, sitting in one of the armchairs facing Kurt. 

“Listen… can we talk? I have some things I need to say, if that’s okay?” When Kurt looks up, his face sets up an aching in Blaine’s chest. There are circles under his muted eyes; his usually crisp posture is notably absent. Kurt nods, then looks down at the pencil in his hands, picking at the eraser with manicured fingers. 

Swallowing, Blaine mentally curses himself for flying blind into a situation fraught with possibilities both good and bad. 

“I... Kurt, you need to know...the thing is-- I-- I’m in love with you,” he blurts out and _wow_ , that was not in any of his planned speeches. At least, not at the outset. His face burns even as the tips of his fingers go cold. “And it’s really dumb. Not _that_ , but what I said, I didn’t mean- it wasn’t just about, like, wanting you,” he says, then takes a breath. He knows he’s rambling. Blaine pulls at the sleeves of his sweater, twitching and wishing Kurt would show some sort of reaction. 

“But it was… I mean, it’s just a lot of… I… oh, for god’s sake, here’s the thing--” he closes his eyes, breathing through his nose. “I’ve been in love with you for, I don’t know, forever, I guess. And it got to be that it felt so good, and just... normal. But everything else… with Ryan and… for a while, I wondered if I was ever going to want to be with someone... like that... and, so, when I kissed you, it was... that was the part that stood out to me, because I _do_. I want to be with you, in every way possible. And it would be really nice if you’d say something or kick me out or give me some sort of idea what’s--” 

“Oh my god, Blaine, shut up.” Kurt stands and then kneels at his feet, eyes brilliant blue-green and wet, hands shaking when they cup Blaine’s cheeks. “I love you, too.” And then his lips are on Blaine’s, wet from tears and so soft, mouth that tastes like coffee and promises. He breaks away gently. “I love you, too.” He kisses Blaine through laughter and tears; kisses his eyelids and cheekbones and Blaine’s fingertips that come up to trace Kurt’s skin. Blaine kneels then, too, so that he has to tilt his head back to let Kurt kiss him, _really_ kiss him, tongue tracing inside lips he’s thought about so long, thinking and wishing to have the courage to open with his. 

~*~ 

They haven’t really talked yet. Instead they spend the day side by side, nose to nose, fingers charting lips and ears, breathing together, immersed in each other. Blaine knows they have a lot to say to one another. He has a lot to say -- so many things he needs, fears he’ll have to open and lay at Kurt’s feet. For now, though, this is all he wants. 

He thinks of the things he’s done, the regrets he’s carried, heavy stones in the empty chambers of his heart: staying in Ohio to appease Ryan; pursuing a degree in a field he has no interest in; trying so hard, too hard, to always be the perfect son to parents who haven’t taken the time to notice him in years. He thinks of his dreams of New York, of himself at a piano, singing words of his making -- dreams he’d given up, regrets rattling against his chest and bones for so long. 

He thinks of them and smiles against the warm comfort of Kurt’s skin, stretched thin and desperately soft against his cheek and lips. It’s hard, really, to regret any choice -- any series of choices -- that led him here, because _this_ is the sweetest thing he’s ever touched. It’s the best thing he’s ever had, and it’s only the beginning. 

~*~ 

He wakes with a start at the slam of the door, surprised and disoriented to find himself tangled up with another warm body. Instinct kicking in, Blaine struggles for a moment, sleepy and confused, until he hears Kurt. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Kurt’s hand is smoothing over his back, soothing and warm. Blaine relaxes, going limp and pliant, ignoring Kevin’s laughter and whispered _finally!_ Under his cheek, he can feel Kurt vibrating with laughter, and then he’s laughing, too, both of them giggling and flushed. He smiles up at Kurt’s, whose face is scrunched and open and happy, eyes gleaming in the dim light of the room. 

“Time ‘izit?” Stretching and yawning, Blaine feels a bolt of something as Kurt shifts, all body and warmth and firm muscles against him. 

“Early… six. Hungry?” Burrowing, Blaine inhales Kurt’s clean scent, not wanting to move but also kind of really hungry. He’s also too aware of Kevin sitting at his desk and maybe watching, or even just aware of them. He nods a little regretfully, rolling gracelessly off of Kurt’s bed before reaching down to pull Kurt up as well. 

“Oh my god, Blaine, you are hopelessly wrinkled.” Kurt’s wail is adorable, really, as is the way he tugs at Blaine’s shirt and mutters about the treatment of even questionable garments. For a moment, Blaine wonders if he’s ever going to get used to this. Catching Kurt’s hand, Blaine smiles, warming to the answering grin Kurt gives him. What’s between them feels secret and treasured, born born out of friendship and understanding. His thumb is steady, smoothing over Kurt’s knuckles. “Let’s go. I’m starving.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Kurt wiggles his fingers at Kevin, who laughs loudly as they leave, hand in hand. 

~*~ 

“Ice cream?” It’s hopeful, kind of, the way he looks at Kurt -- at least, he hopes it is -- and Kurt’s sigh is a mix of put-on suffering and longing. 

“It’s not very responsible to skip dinner for dessert is it?” Kurt teases, smiling mischievously. “Probably terrible for my metabolism. I’ll ruin my lovely form.” 

“What are you talking about?” Blaine has to step back, appraising Kurt in a way he’s never felt comfortable doing so openly before. “You’re perfect, and you know it.” He tugs Kurt behind him, out of the dorm. “Although, if you are so worried it, we’ll get ice cream and walk. Or you can take my word for it and we can get ice cream and sit… and talk, maybe?” He slows when he feels Kurt pulling at his hand, then stops and turns to find Kurt smiling a little, but serious. It’s a wonderful night, the sky beginning to prickle with stars, and the air still warm, the heat of the sun still lingering in the stone of the sidewalks and pavement. Kurt’s hand on his cheek is new and he wants to linger, eyes closed, against his cupped palm. 

“Ice cream and talking. However you want it.” 

“Okay.” He opens his eyes and Kurt is still there, serious and close, and what he feels is so big, expansive and incredible and for the first time he knows. 

_Everything is going to be fine. The worst is over._


End file.
